Ashes and Wine
by liger1983
Summary: Romeo and Juliet thought they had it hard, thought that their romance was torturous. But worse things have happened. Dean/OC. Sam/OC.
1. Prologue

**I don't own Supernatural, only Alyssa. If I did, Bobby wouldn't be dead, you would know more about the Weenchesters, and Missouri would get an exponential amount of love.**

The cracking of crimson vinyl bar stools pierced through the air, nails on a chalkboard to the blonde waitress. Her pouty lipstick mouth curved into a grimace as she set the slice of cake down in front of the stressor; a burly truck driver insistent on darkening his beard with dribbles of ketchup smothered burger.

"Hey, Sexy," he boomed, "what time you get off?"

"Work? Oh, 'round seven," she sighed carefully. Her black converse were gracing a fine line. She met his unyielding gaze slowly, hesitant to indulge his fantasies, yet unwilling to completely belittle him. Her sight darted around the room, unable to bring herself to look at the lust brightened eyes of this man. Her stare skipped over the retro themed diner. Bouncing from one checkered floor tile to the next, scrutinizing the bar stools, with their silver swirling bases and shiny red material to serve as the cherry on top, and dissecting the specials board written in curvy chalk script, anything to avoid his gawk. Caution edged her voice, "I'm meeting up with some friends."

"The more the merrier, I guess," he mused, ignoring her deliberate strategy.

"I…," she began, only to have a sharp alto voice cut her off.

"Is this guy bothering you?" the new addition snapped. The waitress turned to face the brown-eyed man, adept in his confronting manor. She laughed good-naturedly and accentuated with a roll of her robin's egg eyes.

"I'm fine, really," she insisted, "it doesn't bother me." The man offered a crinkly eyed smile and turned back to the persistent costumer. He spoke gruffly, "I think it's time for you to go."

"What the? Son, I will knock you on your ass," the robust aggressor threatened, incredulous. The white knight interjected, "Sweetheart? Could you get this man's tab, please?" He paused momentarily and craned his neck to read the name tag, which was perched precariously on the breast of her faded black Led Zeppelin tee.

"Alyssa," he clarified, dimples piercing through his smile. He stood assuredly, obviously proud of his medium built five foot six frame. He was just shy of Alyssa's five seven, though his gel spiked hair added a good two inches. A round face, small murky eyes and a cocky manor made up his exhaled slightly in exasperation, indistinguishable from the jukebox music, before gliding behind the counter.

"Dean? Hey, man, are you even paying attention?"

"Wha? Oh, yeah, yeah. Small town veggie vamps with commitment issues. It's all very Twilight," a deep voice muttered. His words were distracted, his mind preoccupied with the blonde waitress's ass.

"Damn," he whistled, "I'd tap that."

"What?" the tall man sitting across from him queried, confused. "Oh," he adapted, his gaze finding their waitress, standing with her profile exposed. Skintight jeans and dark Chucks donned her slim figure. Hung over her torso was a black shirt, Led Zeppelin scribbled across the chest and a familiar falling angel swinging underneath. Slits crisscrossed the back of the shirt, divulging a cherry red bandeau and flecks of smooth tanned skin. The sparkling metal of a silver rosary hung at her navel. A thick curtain of ash blonde hair somewhat hid her rosy full lips, and her mascara laden crystal blue eyes sparkled despite the dank lighting of the diner.

"She's hot, right?" Dean probed, eyebrows raised. Sam rolled his eyes in annoyance, exasperation, and reluctant agreement. It was as if she knew they were talking about her, but of course she didn't. Their hushed tones made sure of that. The waitress turned and sauntered over to their booth. "Anything else I can do for you guys?" she smiled. Dean smirked his response, "I can think of a few things."

"Wow. You know it's been a while since I've heard that one," Alyssa countered, surmising he wasn't usually rejected. Dean carried on, growing slightly more agitated at the denunciation, "Well, Sweetheart, you…"

"Actually," Sam cut in, "I'm Agent Bonham this is my partner Agent Plant. We'd like to ask you some questions about the recent murders." Alyssa blanketed her amused, unimpressed smile by biting her lip.

"You guys are feds?" she scoffed, utter disbelief was evident on her face, "you sure about that?" Sam froze, taken aback, and preceded to angst at her, wondering how their usually secure alibi was so transparent. She met his gaze steadily, eyebrow cocked in a provoking fashion.

Dean spoke flirtatiously, maintaining his self- assured composure, "Well, I'm a maverick. A rebel with…"

"Yeah, 'kay," Alyssa interjected, dismissive tones throughout her voice, smirking when his eyes narrowed. She continued her plight on Dean by turning to Sam. "I'll get off work at seven," she promised, giving him a sexy smile, "After that you can ask me anything you want."

"Anything?" Dean joked. Alyssa paused, grinned, catching the sexual connotations, but replied with jest sincerity, "anything."

"Hey, Alyssa!" an animated voice rang through the restaurant, reverberating off the walls. The waitress spun around to face of her "brave rescuer".

"Oh, great. Pseudo Superman. It's my lucky day," Alyssa mumbled. Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and a plastic diamond smile lay plastered across her face. Dean's husky laughter echoed through the air, turning her smile true. Sighing softly, she crossed the black and white linoleum.

The dark eyed stranger leaned towards her, propping himself up by means of an elbow on the condiment stained counter. "I'm Alex," he instigated, "Tell me something about yourself."

"No thanks," she replied shortly, busing herself with cleaning the remains of the truck drivers meal. His brows furrowed, contemplating his next move. Alex's eyes lit with the prospect of an engaging statement, "Aw, come on baby. Don't be like that." Alyssa pointedly ignored him. He exhaled, obviously maddened. "So, you Catholic?" he inquired, with an eager gesture at her crucifix. She retorted curtly, "nope."

"Why do you wear one?" he was mystified.

"Same reason I speak Latin," she vaguely answered, all the while fixated on the messy array of plates before her. She tried her hardest not to open up to strangers, instead freezing them out with an icy absence of words.

"Oh?" he pressed, "and why is that?" Alyssa neglected to respond, but pulled herself enough from her task to glance at him, smirking, before returning to her menial job.

Sam sat hunched over his computer ferociously tapping out commands, ignorant to the doings of the blonde across the diner. His brother slouched against the padded booth, absent mindedly turning his beer. He was still baffled by Alyssa's earlier antics, at first she seemed to reject him, yet still participated in his seducing attempts. "Fucking tease," Dean mumbled under his breath. Sam's attention snapped from his laptop. He cocked his head in question. Dean merely shook his in response, disinclined to explain.

"Still hung up on her, huh?" Sam connected, drawing laugh lines through his cheeks with a mocking smile. His gaze flicked over to their waitress. She looked bored out of mind, though she was polite enough to try to feign interest. He caught her faint smirk. As he focused his attention on Alyssa, he caught fleeting glimpses of conversation. Sam leaned forward, intrigued.

"Dean, are you hearing this?"

The brothers sat perched on the edges of their seats, merely curious spectators in the chess game exchange. With every breath, the conversing pair's words moved pieces across the board. Alyssa spoke tersely, apathetic and unfeeling, yet moved with a quick fluidity. Contrastingly, he thought through every move, obviously on the defense. The girl kept her tones vague and her words empty, a strategy that was no doubt playing to her advantage. Alex was floundering, and it was evident in his sloppy plays.

Alex back peddled, exacerbating the last direction of conversation he had to offer. "You speak Latin?"

"Fluently," she satisfied. Casually, she slipped behind the divide to the kitchen, plates in tow. Alex waited, perched on a bar stool, his fingers impatiently tapping the tinted wood counter. A series of ceramic fuelled interruptions reverberated from behind the metal door, where Alyssa was locked in a fervent joust with a macaroni and cheese encrusted plate. Muffled, dull sounds of pressured water against porcelain flooded from under the barrier. Scraping off the last crisps of yellow noodle, she emerged, plateless and undistracted. Alex doubted her abilities.

"Really?" he asserted, "prove it." She looked and Alex tiredly, not overjoyed with the prospect of sharing her quirks with a virtual stranger.

"Adeo ego dixi vobis," she surrendered. Alex stared at her blankly, unable to comprehend the historic language.

"And that means…,"

"I told you so," she paraphrased, unable to hide the satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"Yeah, right," he disregarded her lingual feats, "why the hell do you know that?" Alyssa laughed softly at an unspoken joke. She conceded, "Job requirement."

"But you're a waitress…," he trailed off, aware he had been left in the dark. It was painfully obvious that she imparted joy out of hiding her truths. Her blue eyes lit with humor, and she smiled as she looked him in the eye. Alex squirmed under her stare as if he were the one being interrogated. She imparted an abstract response, "on occasion." Sensing he had exhausted the last bits of information from her, Alex pleaded a last question, "Any parting words, mystery girl?"

"Keep to the road, beware the moon, and say off the moors?" she volunteered with a shrug. He had a look of utter bewilderment scrawled across his face.

"Huh?"

The fun was over, for he had stopped playing. A forfeit wasn't win in Alyssa's mind. She breathed deeply, suddenly pissed at the endless imprudent questions tumbling from this man's mouth. "Never mind," she spat.

Sam scrutinized his brother, looking for hints of emotion, any insight to his mind. "So, Sammy," Dean inquired, glancing up, "You think she's a hunter?" Sam exhaled audibly, and shook his head, "I don't know. Guess we'll find out."

Alyssa dragged the threadbare rag across the bar, soaking it with lukewarm soapy water. The slick, oily liquid coated her hand as she inattentively hummed. "Goin' 'round the world gotta find my girl. On my way. Been this way ten years to the day. Ramble on…," she sang low and sweet. Alex left in frustration, leaving a beautifully tinkling bell in his wake. The restaurant was desolate, completely void except for the two fake agents. They were talking in hushed voices, every once and a while stealing a glance in her direction. The elder of the two caught in her mind. He wore chiseled features, careless stubble, and beautifully haunting green eyes. His smile was flippant, sarcastic – perfect; could charm the pants off any girl. Alyssa's eyes travelled down his body. Tall, lean, muscular, it was a body any man would gladly sell his soul for.

She looked at the clock, the time promised a good night. Alyssa crossed the floor and gracefully slid in next to Dean. Leaning forward with her elbows on the table and hear chin resting on her laced fingers, she begged the question, "So, _Agents, _you had questions for me?"

"Yeah, did you know the victims?" Sam asked gently. Alyssa shrugged her shoulders noncommittally, "small town. Everybody knows everybody."

"Fair enough," Dean joined the fray, "do you know how they died?"

"Yep. Their blood was drained. Sick bastards. Shouldn't you know this already?" Alyssa posed a question of her own, tipping her head to the side. Dean stared at her pointedly, "Just answer the questions, Miss." Alyssa looked him over, gaze sweeping over every inch of him, but settled on his eyes. She searched them for a moment.

"Sorry, _Sir," _she mocked, a smirk formed on her lips. Dean glared at her for a moment, appearing to be coolly unfazed by her comment, before cracking a smile and looking away. Alyssa relished how easy it was for her to make him grin.

"Have you seen or heard anything weird lately? Maybe smelled anything, like sulfur?" Sam tested. She quirked an eyebrow, "Like ghost, demon stuff? What, are you Mulder and Scully now?"

"Yes," Dean said, faux sincerity filled his voice. '_Finally. Someone willing to play,_' she thought impishly. Her head was singing with ideas of how to aggravate him. Sam sat back and watched as they locked horns in a flirtatious game of the mind. They seemed evenly matched, knowing exactly what to say to throw the other off. Alyssa gave him a strange look, "okay?" she drew out the single word, stretching it to form condescending notes.

"Cut the crap," he barked brusquely. Alyssa drew back sharply, startled by his sudden mood swing. She scoffed. '_If that's how you want to play it. . ._'

"What?" she spit the words as if the very though that someone would talk to her like that was offensive.

"Give us a straight answer," he pressed, "are you a hunter?" Alyssa, like a cat backed into a corner, went rigid, a preemptive strike on whatever was to come. Her hand flew to her hip, where Dean caught a glimpse of the glimmering silver knife. Its polished surface sparkled like a gemstone, a deadly sharp gemstone. Eyes narrowed to slits, she glared at the brothers. She spoke slowly, her voice hard, "Who are you?"

"Relax," Sam soothed, "we're hunters, too." She didn't move from her rigid state, and she didn't relax in the slightest, "Prove it." The brothers exchanged looks, unsure of what to do. Rolling her eyes at their indecisiveness, she pulled the knife from the waistband of her jeans. It was Sam and Deans turn to tense up. They moved away from her slightly. That earned a grin from her. "Relax," she laughed, dropping it onto the table, "You have nothing to worry about."

"That is," she clarified, a sly expression sliding over her face, "if you are really who you say you are." She nudged the blade towards Dean, quirking an eyebrow. He picked it up as carefully as if it might explode. "Silver?" he asked. She nodded slowly, her eyes daring him to use it. Dean complied. Pushing up the sleeve of his leather jacket, he raised the knife to the flesh of his upper arm. Alyssa watched his muscles ripple under his skin, imagined them around her, and almost moaned aloud. He looked her dead in the eye, green cascading against blue, as he slid the knife across his flesh. A small ruby of blood flowed from the shallow cut, but that was the only reaction. "Him, too," she gestured towards Sam, who immediately repeated the same practice. He incurred similar results.

"Christo," she tested them with one short Latin word. Their only response was a confused look. "Well," she declared, "that was anticlimactic." As Alyssa, restored peaceful, fell in to the booth, her body visibly softened back to a calm state. She leaned into the plastic coverings of the bench and grinned at them both. "Good," she sighed, "maybe you can help me." Sam and Dean looked at her, waiting for an explanation. She obliged. "There's a nest about two miles south of town, abandoned warehouse. There are too many of them, and I can't go in alone. It'd be a damn suicide mission. So I gotta pick 'em off one by one when they come in to town."

"Slow going then?" Sam posed. Alyssa's eyes rolled, "you have no idea."

"We go in together, ice them fast, everybody goes home," she proposed. Her lips pursed slightly, preparing for another interrogative, "I never got your names."

"Dean," he introduced himself, then jerked a thumb at his brother, "Sam. Winchester."

"Alyssa Patterson," she reciprocated with a smile. Sam established a question, "So, Alyssa, wanna show us where this place is?" She nodded her consent, and stood. Alyssa walked a few paces, then reached out for a travel brochure. Her slender fingers snagged the glossy paper, pulling it to her. She plopped back down, and presented it to the Winchesters. One finger was jabbed accusingly at the offending building's location. "Two miles," Sam quoted her, agreeing to her previous statement.

Alyssa slid closer to Dean, feigning a better look at the map, and leaned in to him. She steadied herself with a hand promiscuously placed on his thigh. So dangerously close to him. She was close enough to smell the leather of his jacket, and decided it then and there. She would have him. Feeling the pressure on his upper thigh, Dean glanced at her curiously, but his look was not returned. She appeared too focused on the map.

"Why don't you think we're agents?" Sam jovially interrogated. Alyssa laughed. "Bonham? Plant? Zeppelin? Come on, did you not see the shirt?" She stated it as if it was obvious, gesturing to her shirt. Led Zeppelin lay plainly written across her chest. Sam mentally slapped himself, chastising his mistake. He muttered, "Oh."

"I gotta get home," Alyssa announced, and pushed herself up from the seat. As soon as she began to walk away, she paused. "Oh," she called over her shoulder, "and Dean?" The small, folded piece of paper she'd flicked hit its mark, landing on the table before him. She winked, then exited, leaving the tinkling bell of the door in her wake.

Dean unveiled her number, smirked, and then held it up for his brother's inspection. "Told you so."

"Dude, you are so whipped," Sam mouthed off.

"Shut up, Sammy."

**Thanks for reading, love you guys. Please review, they make my day! **


	2. Chapter 1

**Hey. This part takes place in the season 2 episode "Nightshifter." Dean and Alyssa have been together for about two years at this point. I don't own Supernatural, blah, blah, blah. And sorry about the late update, but please bear with me through the incredibly tedious copy, paste, and adapt process, and I promise updates will come faster. Please review!**

Alyssa slumped into the back seat of the Impala, arms crossed and eyes trained on the roof. She unashamedly exuded boredom, loudly sighing her discontent. It was lost in the AC/DC song blaring from the speakers. 'Askin' nothin'. Leave me be. Takin' everythin' in my stride. Don't need reason. Don't need rhyme. There ain't nothin' that I'd rather do. Goin' down. Party time. My friends are gonna be there too.' The words echoed through the car, and the beat hammered itself into her chest. Dean sat in front of her, singing along as he drove. An idea crept into her mind, a way to exclude her boredom. Alyssa sat taller, and scooted further up, so that she was perched on the edge of the cool leather seat. She leaned forward, straining against the confines of her seatbelt. Her lips met Dean's neck, jaw line, kissing him gently. He stopped singing, and spoke, teasing, "You're not supposed to distract the driver."

"Oh, I didn't think you'd mind," she whispered, her lips pressing against his ear. She drew back slightly, and blinked up at him from under her long eyelashes. He turned quickly, parting his eyes from the road. In response to her submissive gesture, he pecked her lips, then turned his gaze back to the pavement. Sam grimaced, griping, "I think I just threw up in my mouth a little."

"Aw, you're just jealous, Sammy," Dean presumed. "Yeah, right," Sam argued, "Just watch the road, Romeo." Dean smirked back at his brother and, ever defiant, kissed Alyssa again.

The Impala ground to a stop in front of the Milwaukee Police Department. Alyssa jerked out of her seat belt, then slid out of the back seat. She flashed a parting smile at Dean before turning to the front door. As she paced forward, she pulled annoyed at the uncomfortable cotton-polyester mix of her skirt. She frowned at the knee length fabric, hating the implications. A dressy red silk blouse and modest grey skirt spelled boring with an l-i-b-r-a-r-i-a-n. All she was missing was winged glasses and a wagging finger to fit the book worm profession.

A sudden blast of the air conditioner hit her in the face as she steeped though the doorway. Alyssa ambled across the office, towards the stair undoubtedly marked morgue. The woman at the front desk opened her mouth in protest, yet was silenced as Alyssa flashed a badge. Her heels clicked down the steps, and she immerged into the metal illuminated room. A man stood at a table, working busily on a sheet covered corpse. He was short and stocky, a salt and pepper beard covering his chin. He glanced up at her, his toffee colored eyes asking her why she was in such a dank place. He voiced his query, "What brings a pretty little thing like you down here?"

"Federal Agent Monroe," she clarified, whipping out her confidence ensuing badge, "I'd like to take a look at the body of Helena Barrett, if that is no trouble?"

"Of course, but you know that was ruled a suicide, right?" the coroner concerned. Alyssa smiled, dismissing his apprehension. She enlightened, "Yes, sir. The boss just wants to cover all bases." The man snorted, but pulled out a drawer. The room was overwhelmed with the chloric stench of embalming fluid. The noxious fumes delivered a sickened feeling to the stomachs of both present. Despite the years of experience on part of the coroner, the smell still manage to have the same crippling affect as a punch in the stomach.

Alyssa prodded the charred flesh of electrocuted Helena, probing for signs that thing were not as they seemed. As she worked, the bearded man sulked in the background, dejected that the FBI felt the need to second guess his work.

Alyssa frowned at the body. She had found no evidence to dispute the suicide claim. "Can I see the body of Juan Morales? We believe the two deaths maybe connected," she asked. The coroner grunted dismissively, impatiently, before wheeling out the stiff. Alyssa flashed a grin of thanks. She poured over the body, turning her mind into a fine tooth comb with which she examined Juan. Greatly to her dismay, nothing stood out about him either.

Sam and Dean pulled up at the modest house. "Five, this is it," Sam surmised. Dean grumbled, "Friggin' cops."

"They're just doing their job, Dean," his brother scolded. Dean casted a sidelong glance at Sam, and exasperatedly explained, "No, they're doing our job. Only they don't know it, so they suck at it." He paused for a moment before ordering, "Talk to me about this bank." They got out of the car and strode up to the house. Sam elucidated, "Uh, Milwaukee National Trust, it was hit about a month ago."

"Same M.O. as the jewelry store?"

"Yep, inside job, longtime employee, the never-in-a-million-years type," he illustrated, "Dude robs the bank, then goes home and supposedly commits suicide"

"The guy, Resnick, he was the security guard on duty?"

"Yeah. He was actually beaten unconscious by the teller who heisted the place," Sam exposed. Dean breathed, "God."

Sam concurred, then he rapped on the door. "Mr. Resnick? Ronald Resnick?" A bright floodlight poured over them, piercing their vision. They instinctively shielded their eyes, throwing an arm over their faces. "Son of a bitch," Dean cursed. A man sulked to the door, his footsteps seemed heavy, tired – weary. "FBI, Mr. Resnick," Sam spoke monotonously. Ronald's recalcitrant eyes roved over their suit clad forms. "Let me see the badge," he inquired skeptically. The hunters yanked forged badges from their jacket pockets, and slapped them against the door, with force adequate to rattle it. The corpulent man narrowed his eyes in cynicism. "I already gave my statement to the police."

"Yeah, listen Ronald, uh," Dean vied for entrance, "just some things about your statement we wanted to get some clarification on."

"You read it?" Ronald's interest was piqued. Dean assured him, "Sure did."

"And you want to listen to what I've got to say?" Ron oozed disbelief. "Well," Dean relieved the ungainly man with a reassuring smile, "that's why we're here."

"Well. Come on in," Resnick invited, suddenly gregarious.

Alyssa glanced at the coroner, pushing for information. "Is there anything you remember," she hesitated, mind scrambling for the right words, "out of the ordinary, about the victims? Any markings, cuts, anything like that, that shouldn't be there?" The mortician looked at her, with an eyebrow raised in question. He cracked a condescending smile, "Miss, these where ruled as suicides. It's nothing more."

"Humor me," Alyssa sarcastically retorted, smiling through clenched teeth. Her face stayed in a tight plastic grin as he began his condescending explanation, "I didn't find anything, quote on quote, out of the ordinary, because there is none to be found. I don't know what the FBI thinks they're doing poking around suicides, because that is all there is here." Alyssa glared at him, but dripped honey into her voice as she defended, "Sir, I'm just following orders. If you have a problem, feel free to take it up with my supervisor." The man retreated his verbal attacks, hesitant to go higher up the proverbial food chain. "Fine," he surrendered, "There was this one thing."

"Oh?" the hunter encouraged. He reluctantly revealed, "The timeline doesn't exactly match up. I mean its close, but no dice."

"What does that mean?" Alyssa continued her inquiry. The coroner, perfectly aware a mistake like this could cost his job, back peddled furiously, "I don't know, and it's probably not a big deal."

"Anything could be vital to our investigation, no matter how small it may seem," she pressed, raising her eyebrows in a "go on" gesture. "Okay, well, I'm not sure, because the electrocution probably accelerated decomp more than I had anticipated, but I don't think so because I checked it and checked it and checked it," he rambled, eyes glazing from unfocused rattling, "Her body was burned badly, like her insides where soup, but the time was still a little…"

"Stop," the blonde cut him off sharply. The coroner jolted out of his trance, "What? Why?" Alyssa sighed in exasperation, directing, "just tell me how far off the times where." He composed himself, and nodded. "About an hour and a half. It's almost as if, as if she was, um, dead," he wavered, clearly fighting an internal battle, "it's almost as if she was dead before the robbery was committed." He searched her eyes for signs of apprehension, and she satisfied his expectations, laughing it off. "Sir, she committed suicide, that's all. Thank you for your work."

Sam and Dean followed Ronald thorough a dimly lit hallway. His disorderly corkscrew hair bounced maddeningly against his head as he waddled into a hoarder-worthy room. The walls were littered with fuzzy photos and Conspiracy Theories. Alien sightings inhabited the room, a byword for crazy.

"None of the cops ever called me back. Not after I told them what was really going on. Uh, they all thought I was crazy," Ronald launched into his senile speech, "First off, Juan Morales never robbed the Milwaukee National Trust, okay? That I guarantee. See, we and Juan were friends, he used to come back to the bank on my night shifts and we'd play cards." Sam looked at Ron, and pointed out his breach of protocol, "So you let him into the bank that night, after hours."

"The thing I let into the bank . . . wasn't Juan. I mean, it had his face, but it wasn't his face. Uh, every detail was perfect, but too perfect, like, you know, like if a doll maker made it, like I was talking to a big Juan-doll," Resnick exuded, ignoring Sam's accusations. "A Juan-doll?" Sam asked, amused. Ronald narrowed his eyes, "Look. This wasn't the only time this happened. Okay?" He jerked a manila folder in Sam's direction, pushing it into his hands. "There was this jewelry store, too. And the cops, and you guys, you just won't see it!" Ron's voice rose steadily, until it was just below a desperate, persistent shout, "Both crimes were pulled by the same thing."

Sam opened the file, and found it laden with the profile commendable of a hunter's. Ron had successfully tracked the creature and its disastrous movements. "And what's that, Mr. Resnick?" he inquired. Ronald picked up a worn copy of Fortean Times, scrawled across the bottom was a headline reading "Birth of the Cybermen." To accentuate the shock of the headline, was a crude picture of a robot. Ronald Resnick bought into every word, "Chinese have been working on 'em for years. And the Russians before that. Part men, part machine. Like the Terminator. But the kind that can change itself, make itself look like other people."

"Like the one from T2," Dean smirked. Ronald nodded excitedly, "Exactly! See, so not just a robot, more of a, uh, a Mandroid."

"A Mandroid?" Sam scoffed. Dean ignored his brother, asking, "And what makes you so sure about this, Ronald?" Ron signified for them to wait, raising a daunting finger in the air. He pushed a tape into the player, it faded to static before jerking into a feasible image. Ron muttered while he zoomed through useless footage, "See, I made copies of all the security tapes. I knew once the cops got them they'd be buried. Here." He releases the tape from fast forward, letting it play. "Now watch. Watch. Watch him, watch, watch! See, look! There it is!"

The tape paused, landing on a startling image; Juan glared at the camera, white light emanating from his eye sockets. "You see? He's got the laser eyes," Ronald gestured wildly to the screen. Sam and Dean glanced at each other knowingly.

"Cops said it was some kind of reflected light. Some kind of 'camera flare'. Okay? Ain't no damn camera flare. They say I'm a post-trauma case. So what? Bank goes and fires me, it don't matter!" Ron ranted angrily, with both hunters eyeing him carefully, "The Mandroid is, is still out there. The law won't hunt this thing down, I'll do it myself. You see, this thing, it, it kills the real person, makes it look like a suicide, then it sorta like, morphs into that person. Cases the job for a while until it knows the take is fat, and then it finds its opening. Now, these robberies, they're, they're grouped together." Resnick turned his hand to a map suspended on the wall. He elaborated, "So I figure the Mandroid is holed up somewhere in the middle, underground, maybe. I don't know, maybe that's where it recharges its, uh, Mandroid batteries."

Dean nodded in agreement, impressed by the accuracy of Ronald's work. Sam discouraged him, "Okay. I want you to listen very carefully. Because I'm about to tell you the God's honest truth about all of this. There's no such thing as Mandroids. There's nothing evil or inhuman going on out there. Just people. Nothing else, you understand?" Dean struggled to keep a straight face, caught off guard by Sam's rejection. Ronald pleaded, growing desperate, "the laser eyes."

"Just a camera flare, Mr. Resnick. Look, I know you don't want to believe this. But your friend Juan robbed the bank and that's it," Sam shut him down. Ronald's eyes turned livid. "Get out of my house! Now!" he fumed. Sam remained calm, "Sure. First things first. You possess classified evidence of an ongoing investigation, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to remand the tapes you copied." Ronald glared at Sam. "Fuck," he muttered, and begrudgingly handed him the evidence.

Alyssa perched on the bench outside the coroner's office, tapping her nails against the weathered green paint. Fragments of the pigment chipped off at the touch of her fingers. She sat in placid silence, waiting to hear the familiar engine rumble and squall of tires that accompanied the arrival of her boyfriend. She occupied herself by people watching. People strolled by on the street, enthralled with their phones and pulling small children, while a couple argued by the town's square. She squinted at their furious forms trying to read their lips. "How could you?" the woman seemed to be screaming, "We've been married ten years, and now you cheat on me?"

"Honey…" He attempted to console her, but the woman wasn't having any part of that, "Don't 'honey' me. You cheated on me…" Alyssa tuned out the actual conversation, and the colorless turn it had taken, instead filling her imagination with perils worthy of a bad romantic comedy. The woman continued in Alyssa's mind's eye, "and with a midget stripper of all things." Daydream-Alyssa did a double take, 'midget stripper...?' Back in reality, she laughed out loud from her stance on the bench, a perch about 30 feet away from the couple. They turned and glared at her, and she fell pointedly silent. Her gaze drifted guiltily towards the clouds, imagining what she must have looked like to a random passerby; eyes watering as her head was thrown back in peals of seemingly unjustified laughter. She thought, 'yeah, that looks completely sane. No crazy here.'

The Impala pulled to a stop in front of her, and she fell into the backseat. "Hey, Babe," Dean greeted her, turning back from his seat and brushing her lips with his own. "Hey," she smiled. They sped down the road, toward motel rooms and comfortable clothes.

"So…?" Alyssa instigated, shattering the silence. Sam peered at her through the rearview mirror, "All we got from Resnick was a crap load of crazy. I mean, Mandroids? Come on."

"We did get these, though. It's a shifter." He flashed the tapes at her. She cocked her head inquisitively, "security footage?"

"Yep," Dean confirmed her suspicions, "What did you get, Lyss?"

"Looks like straight up suicide, guess the shifter did a pretty good job covering its tracks. Coroner was suspicious about the timing of some stuff, but I took care of that," Alyssa summarized her endeavors.

The mundanely sleazy neon sign of the motel room shot through the trio's vision, and Dean pulled into its parking lot. They got out of the car, stumbled into the room, and slammed the door shut behind them. Sam ransacked his duffle, pulling out clothes, before slipping into the bathroom to change. Dean and Alyssa lingered in the main room, extracting their own apparel. Alyssa glanced at the full length mirror, and wrinkled her nose, "ugh."

"What?" Dean queried, his eyes and fingers focused on undoing the buttons of his dress shirt. She shrugged apathetically, "I don't like dressing like a Fed." Dean chuckled, "Aw, come on Baby, it's not so bad." He crossed the room, brushing past the disheveled beds, and wrapped his arms around her. Alyssa's gaze traced their reflection. Her recently released hair tumbled past her shoulders, softening her previously sharp appearance, but she remained hesitant about the rest of her body. She mulled herself over, lingering on the subtle dip between her hip and thigh, the layer of fat coating her inner thigh, and her smallish B cup breasts. These little imperfections haunted her, compared to the magazine cover girls and their gracefully smooth hip area and giant cleavage. Dean stood behind her, protective arms encircling her waist. If he was aware of her insecurities, he didn't mention it.

Even the battle scars aided to his flawlessness. Small, long since scarred, knife wounds marred his taught, muscular, bare chest, yet each miniscule crisscross made his body all the more perfect. Low slung jeans hung around his hips, clinging there, humor lit his emerald eyes, and he leaned down and whispered, "Of course you can always make it sexier." Dean slid his hands down to her hips, then he slowly pushed them up, taking her skirt along for the ride. The steel colored hem danced at her upper thigh, a mere five inches below her lacey panties. His fingers set to work on her shirt, pulling the buttons apart, and exposing her cleavage. "There," he murmured, "That's more like it." Alyssa smiled wryly, "I guess."

"Guess?" he scoffed, "Lyssa, you're perfect." She smiled sheepishly, letting it turn the corners of her mouth up. She felt sexier, more worthy of the man holding her.

His reluctant, heavy sigh weighed down the air. Alyssa's questioning gaze found his eyes' reflection in the mirror. "We have to get changed, gotta work," Dean tapped her ass persuasively, edging her towards her suitcase. Dean and Alyssa finished getting dressed just as Sam exited the bathroom.

Back in work mode, Alyssa sought to settle her confusion, "um, what's this about a Mandroid?" Sam laughed with bitter condescension, "Ronald seems to think a robot from the government, with laser eyes, is behind the robberies."

"Man that has got to be the kicker. Straight up," Dean grumbled, sitting down in front of a map. Alyssa strode over to sit next to him as he continued, "I mean, you tell that poor son of a bitch that, what did you say, remand the tapes that he copied? Classified evidence of an ongoing investigation?"

"Ouch, poor guy," Alyssa laughed. Sam shrugged it off, plopping down on the chair, facing the TV. He leaned back into the tackily upholstered seat, "What, you guys pissed at me or something?"

"No, I just think it's a little creepy how good of a Fed you are. I mean, come on, we could have at least thrown the guy a bone. He did some pretty good legwork here."

"Mandroid?" Sam jeered. "Except for the Mandroid part," Dean expounded, "I liked him. He's not that different from you, Lyss, or me. People think we're crazy." Sam, ignoring the validity of his brother's point, rebutted, "Yeah, except he's not a hunter, Dean. He's just a guy who stumbled onto something real. If he were to go up against this thing he'd get torn apart. Better to stay in the dark, and stay alive."

"Yeah, I guess," Dean relented. The rustling of paper met the Alyssa's ears, who turned towards the sound. Her boyfriend lay tracing paper over the map, and assaulted it with red pen. He drew long marks over the lay of the sewer lines, while Alyssa watched with intense concentration, a focus broken when Sam paused the video. "Shapeshifter. Just like back in St. Louis. Same retinal reaction to video," he narrated. "Eyes flare at the camera. I hate those friggin' things," Dean included his afterthought. "You think I don't?" Sam absentmindedly implored. Dean snapped everyone to attention, saying, "Yeah, well, one didn't turn into you and frame you for murder."

"Well, look. If this shifter's anything like the one we killed in Missouri," Sam began, suddenly alert and serious. Dean shared his sentiment, "Then Ronald was right. All right, they like to layer up underground, preferably the sewer. And all the robberies have been connected so far, right?"

"Yeah."

Dean fumbled with the seemingly random shuffle of papers, placing the red marked tracing paper over a map of the town. "With the, uh, sewer main layout. There's one more bank lined up on that same sewer main," Dean disclosed. All eyes turned to him, concern and question drenching Sam and Alyssa's faces. "What bank?" Alyssa surveyed. "City Bank of Milwaukee Financial Services and Investment."

"Well, what's the plan?" Alyssa bade. Sam diverged from her thinking, "Should we make a plan? We should look at the sewers. It's not like we know if it's going to get hit."

"We don't know that it's not," she rebutted quickly, "Why wouldn't it? If it's after the money and it's gotten away with it, why stop?" Sam looked pensive, mulling over his options. "I don't know," he reluctantly admitted, then flashed her a weary look, "Fine, Lyss. What's the plan?" Alyssa presented a self-satisfied, victorious smile, "I'm glad you see it my way."

"Don't look so smug," Sam teased, a dangerously playful glint forming in his eye. She gasped mock appall, "Why, whatever do you mean?" grinning, she narrowed her eyes in daring challenge. He stepped up to the plate; Sam lunged at her. Alyssa shrieked and widened her eyes, suddenly swept off her feet. He tossed her over his shoulder, and she lay there dangling down his back, defenseless. She emitted a frustrated rumbling sound, and beat on his back as if she were a two year old throwing a temper tantrum. Continuing her juvenile plight, she pouted, "Sam! Put. Me. Down!"

"What's the magic word?" he sing-songed. Alyssa glared at the tacky motel carpeting bellow, "Do it! Or else."

"Or else what?" he laughed at her offences, "I'm so scared, what is she going to do?"

"Oh, I'll tell you what I'm going to do," Alyssa menaced. She drew her foot up towards the ceiling, and let it drop back, plummeting it towards the crotch of his jeans. Her foot stopped shortly before colliding. Sam forfeited at the mere suggestion, pushing her legs over his shoulder. She somersaulted onto the bed that stood patiently waiting behind them. "Ha!" she elated, smirking her victory. Sam rolled his eyes at her, unwilling to admit defeat.

"Such children," Dean chided. But his chastisement held no water, for he was chuckling at their antics. Sam sighed through a lingering grin, "Yeah we should get back to work."

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," Alyssa argued from her place on the bed. The brothers ignored her. "So, we go in as FBI like always?" Dean suggested. Sam shook his head, "and say what? We think your bank MAY be robbed, so we're going to sit here till it is, then stab the guy with a silver knife?"

"Okay, yeah, maybe not," Dean surrendered, "banks got security cams right?"

"Yep," Alyssa confirmed. He nodded, "we go as repair people, say there's a glitch in the system. We get access to the footage and watch for the eye flare." Sam reviewed the plan, hunting for flaws. "They don't usually send three people to do that, we're already pushing it with two."

"Okay, you guys play dress up," Alyssa proposed, much to the chagrin of Sam and Dean, "I'll go in as a costumer, and you knuckleheads can text me when you know who it is. If it is following the same MO, it will be an employee. I'll get it alone and ice it." Dean objected, "Why do you get to gank it?"

"Cause it's my plan," she battled. "Nope, Sweetheart, it was MY plan," Dean argued, "so, my kill." She voiced her discontentment by way of a short finality, "No."

Suddenly, she switched tactics. "Aw, please," she begged, and agile as a cat, she crept into his lap. Kneeling, with a knee on either side of his legs, she brushed her lips against his. She pulled back gently, and looked into his eyes, "please?" Her intoxicatingly sweet, warm breath flooded his senses. Dean flattened a hand against the small of her back, pulling her deeper in. They moved against each other, as she slipped her arms around his neck. The kiss was slow and sweet, and she melted his resolve. His lips grazed past her ear, "Fine." He skimmed her cheekbone, dipping back to her mouth. Sam broke their kiss with a rudimentary clearing of his throat. Dean shifted her so that her long legs were softly bent and draped over his, and her head pressed softly into his shoulder. She molded her hands around his, and set them in her lap, his arms wrapped around her waist. "So, um, we should probably go," Sam uttered, slightly uncomfortable, poking a thumb over his shoulder at the door.

They accessed the authenticity of their clothing, Alyssa deemed her denim shorts and loose fitting t-shirt believable, while the Winchesters slipped into dark blue jumpsuits.

Sam and Dean marched down a brightly lit hall, uniformed and following a guard. The guard bumbled through a slightly skeptical check of identity. "Well, we haven't had any flags go up on our system yet."

"No, this is a glitch in the overall grid, we just want to make sure the branch monitors are kosher," Dean played his part. The guard frowned, but pushed open a door. He unveiled a world of TV screens, each demonstrating a different shot of the bank. He yielded, "Well, better to be safe than sorry, I guess."

"That's the plan," Dean smiled. The guard asked, "All righty. You guys need anything else?"

"Oh, no, no, we'll be, uh, we'll be in and out before you know it, just a routine check," Sam verbally stumbled. Security bought it without question, "Okie-dokie." He lumbered out of the surveillance room, and left them to it. "I like him. He says 'Okie-dokie'," Dean joked. Sam remained stony faced and unamused, "What if he's the shifter?"

"Well, then we follow him home, put a silver bullet through his chestplate," Dean diplomatically decided. They sat before the plethora of screens, eyes roaming for flares. "Okay," Dean quipped, "well, you got any popcorn?" The guard came through the screen, black and white static impaired their view, but his eyes gleamed human. "Well, it looks like mister okie-dokie is . . . okie-dokie," Dean jested. Sam reverted to his previous thinking, "Maybe we jumped the gun on this, Dean. I mean, we don't even know it's here." Dean offered a distracted "Mm-hmm", his eyes were focused on the footage of Alyssa, standing in the snaking line. He scrolled the mouse, zooming in on her denim covered ass. Sam attempted to concentrate, "Maybe we should just go back to the sewers and . . . and . . ."

"Dean, we're supposed to be looking for eyes."

"I'm getting there," Dean muttered, preoccupied by the ever nearing footage of his girlfriend's butt. "Oh yeah?" Sam countered. Dean's attention jumped screens. "Wait a minute," he enticed. The camera flared on the eyes of a greying middle aged man as he turned to face it. "Hello, freak," Dean mockingly greeted. Sam announced, "Got him. Bank manager." Dean whipped out his phone, alerting Alyssa. 'Easy. Thanks.' Her message flashed across the small screen. As Dean watched in the surveillance, she neared the teller. Her bright smile flitted through the video, and she asked to speak to the manager in private.

Movement on another screen alerted Dean of a problem. Ronald Resnick scurried into view on an outside camera, promptly chaining the door shut. "Sam!" Dean's alert reverberated through the small room. His brother's head jerked to the array of footage, "What?" Ron wielded an assault rifle, tearing down the stairs.

"Hello Ronald."

Alyssa grinned warmly at the bank teller; a young redhead woman, obviously jaded and tired of her job. "Hey, um, I need to speak to the manager. Alone. It's kind of urgent."

"Of course, Ms. I'll tell him to," her speech dropped off abruptly, and her eyes widened in terror, "Oh, God."

Three shots rang through the lobby, echoing on the ears of the bank goers, and pounding into their hearts and memories. The watched in horror, fearing for their lives, as the assaulter screamed, "This is not a robbery! Everybody on the floor now!"

Everybody held their ground, immobilized by fear. Impatient and outraged, he fired another shot into the ceiling. Panic exploded through the floor, as random as disturbed ants, everybody ran and dove for cover. "Get down, damnit! Come on! On the floor, on the floor! In the middle! On the floor in the middle! In the middle, on the floor, come on! Hurry up, come on!" Resnick exclaimed.

Dean and Sam fought the sudden onslaught of frightened people pushing towards the back of the building, desperate to distance themselves from the man with the gun. The hunters went against the current, towards the lobby. Dean complained, "And you said we shouldn't bring guns."

"I didn't know this was gonna happen, Dean," Sam defended himself. Dean brushed it off, "Just let me do the talking. I don't think he likes you very much, Agent Johnson." They ran, pressing forward.

Ronald dangled a small silver key in the air. It's soft jingling, a normally merry sound, struck fear in the hearts of the hostages. "Now, there's only one way in or out of here, and I chained it up," Ron explained, "So nobody's leaving, do you understand?"

Dean entered cautiously, Sam trailing close behind. He spoke to Ronald, "Hey, buddy. Calm down. Just calm down."

"What the- You! Get on the floor, now," he responded with disbelief. Sam and Dean raised their hands in surrender, and lowered themselves to the ground. "Okay, we're doing that. Just don't shoot anybody," Dean cautioned, "especially us." He offered a quick gesture between himself and his brother. He glanced behind Resnick for a moment, eyes training on Alyssa. She slumped against the counter, its marble lip partially shadowed her face. Her gaze flickered nervously between the rifle and its menacingly untrained handler, and the barrel's targets: Dean and Sam. Dean caught her eye, and they stared at each other for a moment. Alyssa mouthed a silent, "Be careful." He discreetly smiled acknowledgement.

"I knew it. As soon as you two left. You ain't FBI. Who are you? Who are you working for, huh? The men in black?" Ron paused, an opportunity which Sam took to offer an eye roll. Ron accused loudly, "You working for the Mandroid?"

"We're not working for the Mandroid!" Sam snapped hurriedly. "You, shut up!" Resnick commanded, "I ain't talking to you, I don't like you." Dean shot his brother a look that clearly spelled "I told you so".

"Fair enough," Sam reluctantly gave.

"Wait," Alyssa called, to which Dean gave an alarmed, panicky look, darting from the gun barrel to her. She cocked her head to the side, "YOU'RE Mandroid Guy? Dude…" Her long hair bounced as she disapprovingly shook her head. Ron brandished the assault rifle, pushing it, in warning, towards her face. "Hey!" Dean snapped Ronald's attention purposefully from Alyssa. When he said no more, Resnick's sharp, unsure commands flooded the air, "Get on 'em. Frisk them down, make sure they got no weapons on them. Go!" Alyssa fingered her silver knife, guardedly pushing it further down into the waist band of her shorts. A man jumped to attention, and crossed the floor to where Sam and Dean kneeled. He patted them down, feeling for weapons. Sam emerged from the check clean and proven weapon free, but a small, shiny dagger was pulled from Dean's boot.

"Now what have we here?" Resnick probed. His question went unanswered, as Sam shot Dean a look. "I'm not just going to walk in here naked," Dean protected himself. Ronald snatched the knife from the obedient hostage. "Get back there," he barked. The man scampered to conform. Ron clattered the knife into a slit in the top of the deposit box. Dean protested with a chorus of "No"s, then he resolved to a wince. "We know you don't want to hurt anybody. That's exactly what's gonna happen if you keep waving that cannon around," Dean started, "and why don't you let these people go?"

"No!" Ron protested, "I already told you. If nobody's gonna stop this thing, then I've got to do it myself."

"Hey, we believe you! That's why we're here," Dean safeguarded. Resnick screwed his eyes in incredulity, "You don't believe me. Nobody believes me! How could they?"

"So, you admit you're crazy," Alyssa imprudently challenged. She and Dean were both provoking Resnick, drawing notice away from the other, protecting each other. Ronald glared at her, eyes flaring furiously, flickering dangerously, "You…!" Dean snapped Ronald's attention back to him with a sharp, "Come here." Ronald fortified protective walls, building up a defensive armor. "What? No."

"You're holding the gun, boss, you're calling the shots," Dean reassured him, "I just want to tell you something. Come here." Ronald padded forward, remaining cautious, and leaned in slowly. Dean divulged the information, voice lowering only slightly above a whisper, "It's the bank manager."

"What?" He was unsure. "Why do you think we've got these getups, huh?" Dean revealed their plan, yet omitted Alyssa's involvement, "We've been monitoring the cameras in the back. We saw the bank manager, we saw his eyes."

"His laser eyes?" Ronald reminisced in his tired theory. Alyssa watched, stifled words swelling in her throat, as they exchanged words. "Yes. No. No! No, look, we're running out of time, okay? We've got to find him before he changes into someone else."

"Like I'm gonna listen to you. You're a damn liar."

Dean stood deliberately, cautiously, sluggishly, hands up in surrender. "I'll shoot you! Get down!" Resnick imperiled. Alyssa's breath caught in her throat, trapped behind screams of "No". She bit her lip, an attempt to shove the word back down, for she knew he was volatile. As pressure sensitive as he looming trigger of the gun he clutched so tightly. A single cry from her could set him, and the gun, off.

"Take me. Okay?" Dean suggested, luring him away from the frightened bank's populaces, "Take me with you, take me as a hostage. But we've gotta act fast. Because the longer we just sit here the more time he has to change."

"Look at me, man. I believe you," he continued, "You're not crazy. There really is something inside this bank."

"All right. You come with me," Ron agreed, "But everyone else gets in the vault!" Feet shuffled across the tile as they were herded into a metal room. Pushed forward with words and hands, they were crowded in. Dean, following Ronald's commands, began to shut the heavy door, "it's okay, everyone. Just stay cool" He contritely shrugged at Sam and Alyssa, who stood huddled together, before slamming the door shut. The redheaded teller, Sherri, gazed after Dean, lingering long after the door was closed. Her eyes softened, growing dreamy and dazed. In a breathy voice, she mused, "Who is that man?"

"He's my brother," Sam breathed worriedly, unaware of her blooming crush. Sherri ruminated, "He is so brave." In response, Alyssa bristled and stepped towards the woman. "Yeah, hi, I'm Alyssa, and that," she gestured towards the vault door, and in fabricated friendliness spoke, "is my boyfriend."

"Oh," the red head sighed, her voice a sickeningly sweet cherry liquor, "and where ever did such a handsome man pick up someone like you?" She posed the question as though innocent, yet Alyssa saw through the innocuous insinuations. She stood taller, drawing herself to her full height, and took another ominous, challenging step forward. "What the Hell is that suppo-"

"Alyssa!" Sam cut her off, "put the claws away."

"Yes mommy," she mockingly impinged. Her voice dripped sarcasm. Sam gritted his teeth, biting back a sharp retort. "Lyss," his voice was softer, stifled in warning. Alyssa's scowl dissipated, leaving a dejected expression in its wake.

Suddenly, the vault fell into bitter dark. Muffled cries filled the air, mingled with ferocious shouts of "hey!" and "what?" Sherri screeched and jumped against a solid Sam, clinging to his arm. Alyssa's eyes lighted with humor, and she giggled at the floundering young woman, "wimp." Sherri narrowed her eyes, disentangled herself from Sam, but held silent.

A deep voice resounded from the back of the crowd, the rumbling baritone assumed, "The cops must have cut the power. They've probably got the place surrounded. It's almost over!" Faint sighs flowed through the air as a calm settled over the group. They transitioned into relaxed positions, feeling secure in the knowledge that rescue was on its way. Some submitted to the heat, fanning themselves impudently, while Sherri babbled, "Has your brother always been so, um, wonderful? I mean, staring down that gun. And you know, the way he played right into that psycho's crazy head, telling him what he wanted to hear, I mean, he's like, a real hero or, or something."

"Yeah. Yeah," Sam stared at her.

The door creaked as it opened, Dean stood behind it, toting a hand gun and a few idlers. Alyssa looked up at him, questioningly, from her place sitting on the floor. Sherri leapt forward, more excited, eager to capture her prey. "Oh my god, you saved us. You saved us!"

"Actually," he corrected her, "I just found a few more. Come on, everybody, let's go. Let's go." As she watched, staring in confusion, he shepherded more people into the already cramped space.

"Wha," she faltered, "what are you doing?" Dean ignored her, instead turning to his brother and girlfriend, "Sam, Lyssa, look, uh, Ronald and I need to talk to you." The pair shuffled out of the small room, removing some of the crowded pressure. They turned to Dean for answers. He obliged, "It's shed its skin again. We don't know when - it could be in the halls, it could be in the vault."

"Great," Sam griped, "You know, Dean, you are wanted by the police."

"Yeah."

"So even if we do find this damn thing, how the hell are we gonna get out of here?"

"Well, one problem at a time," Dean blew it off, "All right, I'm gonna do a sweep of the whole place, see if we can find any stragglers. Once we get everyone together we've got to play a little game of find-the-freak, so...here." He pushed a shining silver letter opener into each person's hand, and continued to brief them, "Found another one of these for you two. Now stay here, make sure Ronald doesn't hurt anybody, okay? Help him manage the situation." Sam gawked at him, incredulous, "Help him manage? Are you insane?" Dean's eye line brushed past his brother and landed on Ronald, who stood idly by. He shot Ron a persuasive, grinning thumbs up, then turned back to Sam and whispered, "Look, I know this isn't going the way we wanted." Sam broke the quiet trend, shouting, "Understatement!"

"But," Dean continued, transitioning smoothly, as if the outburst had not occurred, "if we invite the cops in right now, Ronald gets arrested, we get arrested, the shifter gets away, probably never find it again, okay?"

Ronald had crept to the window, and, pushing the crackling blinds aside, peered through the dusty glass. Sam sighed in exasperation, spotting him, then, before Dean or Alyssa could form the question, gestured impatiently. "Ron, out of the light!" Dean hissed, to which Sam added, "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Dean conceded, "Ron's game plan was a bad plan, I mean, it was a bit of a crazy plan, but right now crazy's the only game in town, okay?" As he turned to leave, he gave parting gifts; a slap on the back for Sam, and a faint, fleeting squeeze of the hand for his girlfriend. Alyssa leaned against the wall, peering after his fleeting form as it disappeared into the darkness. "Please be careful," she whispered low, her begging inaudible to Sam.

Sam slumped against the wall, sighing, and rolled his eyes at the deranged looking man. "Hi, Ronald."

Heavy panting breaths startled Alyssa, and she whipped around. Her eyes scanned the crowd for the perpetrator, finding the security guard bent over, bracing himself on his bent knees and clutching his chest. She raced towards him, yet stopped short, unsure of what to do. Sam, also irresolute, offered, "I'm going to leave this open. Give you guys some fresh air, all right? But no one leaves this vault."

The sharp, steady ringing of a phone grabbed their attention, and flustered Ronald spun towards the sound. He stared at it as the tones propelled it to vibrate slightly on its hook. "I don't understand, why are you helping him?" Sherri glared at Sam. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Hello?" Ronald relieved the phone of its hook. Discord ensued; people pleaded with each other, arguing their cases, as they pushed to get the guard released. Ronald, overwhelmed by the interrogation he was receiving, waded through unfamiliar waters. As he talked to the cops via the phone, fragments of conversation broke through the panic. "What demands? . . . Kind of a crime fighter. . . I guess." Sam, fed up, snatched the phone away from him, and slammed against its receiver, condemning it to silence. He explained his actions brusquely, "Ronald? The less the cops know, the better." Ron nodded quickly. The hostages shouted from the vault, they surmised the man's medical condition and pleaded with Sam. "Sam!" Alyssa called to him, "Sammy, we've got to do something."

"Great. Could be our guy. Could be a trick," he discerned. She opened her mouth to respond, but closed it, shaking her head, for she couldn't think of what to say. A man argued in place of her, "You just going to let the man die?"

"No one's dying in here," he prohibited. He looked at Alyssa for relief. She glanced around the room, searching for inspiration for her exhausted imagination. Her gaze found the sleek, black phone, "call them, whoever's asking for demands. Tell them to bring in a paramedic." Sam grabbed for the telephone. Everybody waited, standing with bated breath as it clicked back to life. Muffled static met the ears of the onlookers, words undiscernible from that vantage point. "Look, one of the people could be having heart trouble, you need to send in a paramedic," Sam persuaded the receiver. They disagreed, provoking him to raise his voice, "Just send in a paramedic, okay? And don't try anything else. Please."

"Paramedic? We don't have time for that, man!" cries rang in from the crowd. Ronald fumbled to regain control, "Listen, I, I'm sorry, okay? I am. But nobody's getting out."

"He's dying right in front of you," a well-built African American man implored, stepping up to support the suffering guard. He smoothly slipped under the guard's arm, letting his body support the heart attack victim's.

Dean crept along the dark hallway, illuminating sections of it with a circular dim flashlight's glow. The beam fell on an askew ceiling panel. Intrigued, he prodded it with a nearby coatrack. After a few pokes, it dislodged. As it slid back, a male body tumbled from it, donning only underwear. It crashed to the floor, and landed with its face flat against the dirty tile. Dean turned it over, divulging the face of a hostage. He spun on his heel, making his way back to the vault at a steady clip.

The guard forced breath from his lungs, it emerged from his mouth pained and ragged. The man's supporter appealed, "Come on, man, you've got to open up the door. We've got to get him out of here." The rifle cracked cuttingly as a bullet slid into the chamber, and Ronald brandished the cocked AR, "Both of you stay where you are!" They're belligerent conversation fell on deaf ears; Dean walked out of the pitch-black hallway. He leaned in and whispered to Sam, who then spoke, "You know what Ronald? He's right, we've got to get this man outside." He pulled the man against him, helping him to shuffle onward. "Come on I've got you."

"I'll help you," the obliging man offered, but was quickly, and somewhat rudely, dismissed. Alyssa turned to Dean. "Him?" she mouthed, unwilling to call attention to the fact they knew. He nodded one short, curt dip of the head. He spun around to face the shifter, "Hey, can I talk to you for a second?"

"You got the gun, man. I mean, whatever," he spouted, drawing closer. When he was within a foot of Dean, he lunged. Dean, unprepared for the attack, crashed to the ground, but quickly recovered. He scrambled to his feet and pursued the fleeing monster. Alyssa sprinted after them both, right on Dean's heels, with a bewildered Ronald a few paces behind. "Stop! Come back here!" he screamed, voice inhibited by the labored breaths of running.

The muted, dull, glow of moonlight flooded through the windows. It drenched Ron in light, and that cast a shadow that stretched across the floor. He stopped in the middle of the floor, back to the window, with the night growing behind him. "Get down! Now!" The warning pierced through the air with all the tenacity of a knife, willing everyone to turn. A pinprick of bloody light hit Ronald, and the effect was immediate. "Ron, move!" Alyssa screamed, just as a single shot filled the air. The bullet slipped through the glass window, shattering it into a million fragments, shining and broken, and buried itself deep in Ron's chest. He fell to his knees, shock filled eyes and gasping lungs, then slumped to the floor.

Alyssa stood, dazed, gaping at the limp body. Dean grabbed her from the trance like state, and they huddled behind a low wall. Sam stared out from the shadows, his face a mask of astounded horror. The hostages breathed a sigh of relief, yet their victory was tinged with trauma. The shifter bolted out of the fray, taking full advantage of the dreadful discord. The crimson pool seeped across the stark white tile, staining its shiny surface. Ronald's broken body lay still. For a moment, as they watched the light drain from his eyes, the world stood still.

Then chaos arose. The captured bolted from the vault, and they sprinted in unjointed directions. Dean and Alyssa ran across the floor, out of the sniper's range of sight; Sam ducked down beside them. He offered his brother a key, "Here. Take care of the guard. I'm going after the 'shifter. Lyss, stay with the hostages in case it changes again." After curt nods of agreement, Sam took off. Dean ran low, making his way over to Ronald's body. "Sorry, Ron. You did a real good job tracking this thing, you really did," he consoled Ron while pulling the rifle from his grasp. Furtively searching the crowd, his found the guard. Together, with Dean simultaneously balancing grasping the rifle and supporting him, they stumble and trip towards the exit.

Whirling red and blue lights filled the night and screeching sirens captured the ears of the bystanders, a perfect backdrop to the nail biting story. "We're here downtown in front of the City Bank of Milwaukee," a female reporter spoke in a calm voice, peppering it with overly dramatic falsified concern, "and though a short exchange of weapons fire occurred just minutes ago, police and SWAT teams maintain position as we enter the third hour of this intense standoff. Authorities estimate as many as ten hostages are being held inside the bank; no word as yet on the identity of the suspects, or, uh," Stifled, running footsteps and clanging echoed dramatically behind her, "Something's happening. I think they're opening the door. Roger, are you getting this?"

The doors pushed open, and the two men stumbled outside. Dean nudged the guard out onto the steps, edging him towards the waiting medical team. He kept the struggling man in front of him, a protecting human shield. The man took a few more tripping steps ahead, his already pain fogged mind was further hampered by the sudden onslaught of guns pointed at his chest. "Don't . . . shoot," the guard managed to wheeze between coughing fits, "Don't shoot."

"No, no, no, don't even think about it," Dean's voice joined, and the poised snipers obliged, holding off their fire as the hostage staggered down the steps. Dean pulled back into the sanctuary of the bank and out of the line of fire. He peered out of the fogged window, watching as the man hobbled to his safety of ambulances and paramedics. An armed SWAT team littered the parking lot, wielding their guns. Carefully latching the door, he muttered, "We are so screwed."

The shed skin lay abandoned on the floor. Sam prodded the fleshy mass, his disgust growing as it quivered and shook in all its slimy horror. He fished his phone from his pocket and tapped out Dean's number.

"Yeah?"

"Slipped his skin," Sam simplified, words coming out dry and tasteless. An almost stale feeling flooded through their conversation. "All right, you search every inch of this place, I'm gonna go round everybody up," the phone call ended abruptly on Dean's command. He herded the hostages back into the vault, letting the disgruntled complaints slide off. Sherri squeaked from the crowd, "And I thought you were one of the good guys." Dean looked at her tiredly, running a hand over his jaw, "What's your name?"

"Why would you care?" she cried, edging her voice with cautiousness. "My name's Dean," he offered. "I'm Sherri," she introduced herself shyly. "Hi, Sherri," he smiled, presenting the first signs of kindness the hostages had seen, "Everything's going to be all right. This will all be over soon." Sherri stood there, immobilized in confusion, while Dean pulled Alyssa out of the vault. The vault door shut with a heavy mechanical clang, reverberating through Alyssa's ears.

"I don't like her," Alyssa conceded. They held hands tightly and stood with their arms pressed together, her head rested on his shoulder, his thumb gently rubbing over her knuckles. Dean pulled away from their placid positioning, though leaving their fingers intertwined, to give her an amused grin, "who? Sherri?"

"Yes Sherri," she complained, "she likes you." She wore an annoyed look, the kind of protective, claiming expression only a jealous girlfriend can bestow. Dean's eyes lit in amusement and interest, "Does she?"

"Yes," she spat bitterly, her tone then softened to an insecure whimper, "and don't like it so much." Dean smiled at her softly, then pressed an indulgent kiss onto her forehead. His arms wrapped themselves tightly around her waist. Her mouth curved upwards in contentment at the tender pressure of his lips. "Aw, baby," he appeased, "you know I love you." Her happiness grew, and her voice swelled with admiration, "I love…" The impinging toll of the phone broke her sentiment to pieces, edging the couple apart. Dean reluctantly let her go, and she plopped her disappointed self down on a pale stone bench. He pulled the interrupting phone from its port, listened to the caller introduce himself, and replied impatiently, eager to return to Alyssa, "Yeah, listen, I'm not really in the negotiating mood right now."

Alyssa quickly bored of the one-sided conversation and walked over to listen. She hugged Dean from behind, balancing on the toes of her Converse, and pressed her ear close to the receiver. He adjusted easily, laying an arm over her wrapped grip, holding her against him.

"Good. Me neither. It's my job to bring you in; alive is a bonus but not necessary," a man's baritone crackled through the phone lines. "Whoa. Kinda harsh for a Federal Agent, don't you think?" Dean jested, his voice was loud and rumbling by Alyssa's ear. The man on the other end of the line had a haughty note to his voice, "Well, you're not the typical suspect, are you, Dean?" Dean's face was a mask of horror, and Alyssa's jaw hit the floor. She clutched him tighter, as if holding him could keep him safe. The negotiator continued, "I want you and Sam out here, unarmed. Or we come in. And yes, I know about Sam. Bonnie to your Clyde." Alyssa tensed further, burring her face in Dean's shoulder. Dean appeared unfazed by the man's demands, "Yeah, well, that part's true, but how'd you even know we were here?"

"Go screw yourself, that's how I knew," Alyssa rolled her eyes at the negotiator's confronting play, "It's become my job to know about you, Dean. I've been looking for you for weeks now. I know about the murder in St. Louis, I know about the Houdini act you pulled in Baltimore. I know about the desecrations and the thefts. I know about your dad."

"Hey, you don't know crap about my dad," Dean darkened. The man was all too giddy to prove him wrong, a quality similar to a kid in a candy store, "Ex-marine, raised his kids on the road, cheap motels, backwoods cabins. Real paramilitary survivalist type. I just can't get a handle on what type of whacko he was. White supremacist, Timmy McVeigh, to-may-to, to-mah-to."

"You got no right talking about my dad like that. He was a hero," Dean defended. The voice scoffed, "Yeah. Right. Sure sounds like it. You have one hour to make a decision or we come through those doors full automatic." The phone clicked off, leaving menacing silence in its wake and dredging up feelings of unadulterated horror. "How are we getting out of this?" Alyssa whispered, fear sending tremors through her voice. "You, babe," Dean answered, "will get 'rescued' by the cops when they come in here. You will stumble around and cry like an innocent little girl who got caught up in something big. The cops don't know about you, so you'll be safe."

"And you and Sam?" she insisted, "I'm not leaving without you guys."

"Aw, Sammy and I'll get out of here fine, but I gotta know you're safe. Please." She nodded slightly, still unconvinced, but she resolved to play her part.

Sam padded through the hallways, tensed and ready for a fight. His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, and he attempted to muffle their sound, keeping his tread light. But a dark liquid spread across the floor, hindering his path. As he shined the flashlight beam on the foreign substance, it became clear, through the deep crimson color, that it was blood that seeped out from under a nearby closet. Sam ripped the door open, and the half-naked body of a familiar redhead tumbled out from amidst the cleaning supplies. A jagged cut ripped through her throat, spilling putrid gore onto the linoleum. He cussed under his breath, turning and sprinting back to the vault room.

"Hey. We've got a bit of a problem outside," Dean called to his brother, who retorted, "We've got a bit of a problem in here."

They pried open the vault door, disturbing the masses. The hostages jerked up and glanced around, weary and silent. "Sherri? We're going to let you go," Dean informed her. She startled, "What? Why me?"

"Uh, as a show of good faith to the feds, come on."

"Um, I think I'd, I'd rather stay here, with the others," she backed into the pool of people, relying on them for support. Dean took a few warning steps towards her, and Sam and Alyssa stood behind him with their arms crossed, a mixed signal of impatience and menacing. "I'm afraid," Dean threatened, "I'm going to have to insist." She looked at them guardedly as Sam fingered his silver blade and Alyssa smirked forebodingly, but the redhead followed them into the hall. Sam and Dean pushed her deeper into the bank, pressing towards the awaiting corpse. "I-I thought you were let-letting me go," Sherri stammered. Rubbing the hilt of her weapon with her thumb, Alyssa laughed cruelly, "It's gonna be a little bit too fun stabbing you."

"Stab?" Sherri screamed, her voice rising to a panic, "Are you that freaking jealous?"

"Bitch, please," Alyssa dismissed her assumptions. Dean grinned at her, "You're so cute when you're jealous." She attempted a jesting pout, but her eyes betrayed a thrill at the complement. Her mind was utterly void of a worthy comeback, so she stammered a second before resigning to a childish, "Shut up."

Sherri's whimpers sobered the couple, and brought them back to reality. Dean shoved Sherri's head roughly forward, wavering it inches from the corpse, a virtual carbon copy of herself, exempting the lack of clothes on the scantily clad dead body. Sherri screamed hysterically, incoherent babble flooding from her lips and body flailing against Dean's grip. Dean mocked her, "Is that community theater, or are you just naturally that good?"

"This is the last time you become anybody. Ever," Sam added. Her eyes grew wide and her jabber died off, "Oh god! Oh." Her body went limp in Dean's arms, and he let her fall to the ground. She lay there on the floor, unmoving and silent. The hunter stared, baffled at her fainted form, and confused eyes darted from limp body to limp body. Dean decisively swung the rifle from his shoulder, and knelt above the fainted Sherri. He shrugged, raising the blade high above his head. The silver glinted in the darkness, prepared to delve into the shifter's heart, but Sam put a hand out to stop him. "Dean, wait, wait, wait. What's the advantage of this plan? I mean, fainting now wouldn't help it survive." Dean glanced at the other body, "Huh." He shifted his stance toward the other limp woman and prepared to strike again, yet a sharp breaking noise diverted his attention. When he glanced away, the shifters eyes popped open, and it lunged for Dean's throat. Dean struggled at its hold, stabbing blades that wouldn't connect. Alyssa longed to intercede, to rip the, in her mind "Bitch-monster", off of her boyfriend. But she knew that it was his fight, and to attempt to help would only hinder his efforts, or, more probable, royally piss him off. 'Damn,' she thought bitterly, 'why does he have to be so fucking macho.'

Sherri woke up, screaming and thrashing about. Sam crossed over to her and helped her up, half dragging, half carrying her out into the hallway. While Sam was aiding Sherri, The shifter kneed Dean in the chin, and the resulting crack rung through the air, then monster bolted down the hallway. "Crap," Dean cussed, then hesitated before adding, "Hour's up, Lyssa. Get out of here. We've got this."

"But…," she protested, for she was hesitant to leave during such a fragile time. Dean glared at her. A hard 'do it' spun through her mind at the image, prompting her to scurry out the door.

She put on an, in her mind at least, Oscar worthy performance. Her blue eyes grew big and shiny as faux tears poured through her vision, mascara streaks trailed from her lashes, muddying her face, and her body was racked with tremors and sobs. She held herself limply and burrowed her chin against her chest as she ran staggered and limp, her feet intentionally stumbling below her, through the dim halls towards the sound of heavy footsteps. The bulletproof vest armored men marched through the corridors, trekking straight into the path of the sobbing blonde. From her bowed head vantage point, all she could see was four identical pairs of black boots as they halted in front of her. She looked up at them sheepishly, ripping her fearful gaze from the floor, but choked on her tears and receded back in to the concave form at the sight of their guns. Her eyes were once again trained on the ground. "Don-don't shoot," she whimpered, fragmenting her speech, "I ju-just wanted to … to make a withdrawal! I didn't know, I didn't…"

"Okay, miss. Come with us. It's going to be alright," a short, squat man with a monotonously professional voice attempted to comfort her. He feigned a soothing personality, his hand faltered as he patted her clumsily on the shoulder. Her lower lip quivered, but she staggered towards him with her awkward, shaky, Frankenstein-like gait. The rounder man and another, slightly taller, officer peeled away from the group, escorting Alyssa out of the building. 'Oh, well,' she ruefully thought to herself, 'at least Dean and Sam have two less to deal with. At least I managed to do that.'

More uniformed S.W.A.T. poured in through the broken window, funneling through the shattered fragments like ants to their hill. They paraded their armed forces through the bank, hot in pursuit of Dean Winchester, who had just barely avoided them. He accomplished this feat by ducking around a corner and into the shadows. They trekked through the building until they found a terrified redhead backing herself against the wall. Sherri begged, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I work here! Get me out, get me out of here." They nodded shortly, and guided her trembling form from the bank, leaving two officers to patrol the rest of the hallway. They trumped forward on loud, booted feet, continuing down the passage until they came face-to-back with Sam, who halted abruptly. He was an imposing figure, towering a good inches above the six foot tall cops, and clearly muscled even though his back was turned. A cop called out, brandishing his weapon and feeling safe hiding behind it, "Freeze! Let me see your hands." Sam held still, feigning a white-flag waving surrender, but suddenly turned and knocked the gun out of one of the cop's hands. Utilizing a well-placed swing, he punched the cop in the side of the head and sent him reeling. The other police man cocked a bullet into the chamber, but was quickly disarmed as well. This time, a flying kick to the gut was dealt, and the cop's back hit the waiting wall first. Then his head quickly followed suit, the sickening crack knocked him out cold.

Dean padded through the halls, contemplating footsteps hunted for the shifter. He peered around corners and into darkened rooms, the flashlight a guiding beam. The circle of light fell on the female face a moment too late; just in time to see her fist shooting towards his face. It connected cleanly with his jaw, sending him spiraling to the floor. Yet he quickly recovered, settling into a fighting stance. His fist swiped at it, a blow just barely dodged. The shifter quickly retaliated, throwing in a few jabs of its own. One connected, but Dean grabbed its arm. The shifter grasped Dean's shoulders, pushed him away from its own body. They struggled like that for a few stretched and tired moments, Dean getting in two strong head-butts. He slashed at again, the silver knife glinting from its place tightly clenched in his fist. It made a quick move, grabbing his wrist and jerking his arm up, trapping him in a vulnerable position. With one arm pinned in the air his entire left side of vital organs was left vulnerable. Dean grasped at her forearm, attempting to wrench it from its grasp and relieve the building tension in his shoulder. The shifter's skin puckered under his fingertips, slowly, stickily pulling from the body that once held it. Long strings of milky yellow mucus clung to it, stretching from the fragmented piece of flesh to lingering arm. The Dean made a disgusted face, "Gross."

The shifter responded with a hard kick between the legs. Dean's face contorted in pain, and it sent several superfluous strikes towards his head, foot connecting each time. He moved quickly, grasping its leg and jerking it against the wall. The shifter fought back bitterly, ripping and twisting against his grip. He jabbed the knife at it, and the blade slipped easily through the failing skin and stuck in the rock hard barrier of its sternum. Still unsatisfied, he exerted the extra strength necessary to splinter its chestplate and ram the silver through its heart. Hot burgundy fluid spurted from the intrusion, and the thick gore coated his hand and wrist a deep vibrant crimson, blood leaving sprays across his chest like paint splatter. The shifter's lifeless body slumped to the floor. The loud, ominous thud of footsteps behind him brought him back from the adrenalin soaked battle.

Alyssa squinted against the early morning sun, tears drying on her face and arms firmly planted around her stomach. Two uniformed cops stood in front of her, berating her with questions. She crammed as much emotion into her answers as she could, striking a balance between traumatized and intelligible. Her voice was pitched two octaves above her usual alto tone, and was rife with heavy pants and choked cries. But her mouth was on autopilot, as her mind was preoccupied with developing an escape plan. "Did you notice anything suspicious about anything in the bank?"

"Anything suspicious? These three guys locked us in a bank vault. Everything was suspicious!" Alyssa cried, incredulous. The short officer who had escorted her out of the building was interrogating her. Or as they called it 'taking her statement', yet, though that description seemed so calm, so safe, she felt very much confronted. The policeman attempted a smile, but it came out forced and a tad plastic, "No, I meant before the incident took place."

"I-I don't know," she started mock hyperventilating, "It was all… I was just waiting in line…and…the guy had…had a gun…oh God…"

"Calm down miss," the police officer urged, buying every word she said. Alyssa screwed her eyes shut and nodded, making a vain attempt to take long, languorous breathes and calm herself. She finally did peek a lid open, and she was met with the admittedly unattractive sight; Sherri perched on the open back end of an ambulance sobbing uncontrollably. Sherri rocked herself slightly as she struggled to contain her tears. When she did recover, she extended manicured, accusatory finger at Alyssa, who took that as her cue to leave.

Alyssa shook herself and wiped at her mascara caked eyes. Feigning an 'I'm-doing-okay-on-the-outside-but-inside-I'm-dyin g' type smile, she queried, "I must look like a mess. Is there anywhere I could clean up?"

"Sure, right this way," the cop offered politely, leading her away from the gaudy yellow crime scene tape and towards the adjacent lot. A twenty-four hour diner sat there, lights humming from use. The eatery was framed with tall city buildings, an out of place relic among the developed metropolis.

In response to Sherri's pleads, the cop interviewing her sauntered over to where they were questioning the blonde girl, but discovered only the receding backs of the girl and her questioner as they walked towards the restaurant. Alyssa assumed she was safe, almost to the diner, a fully formed plan resting on her thoughts and muscles twitching, eager to carry out the task, but, as she looked back, a cop stalked her gaze. "Crap," she voiced. In a moment of weakness, an ill placed guilty shrug highlighting her lies. She mentally chastised herself, and attempted to cover her thoughtless actions by forging towards the restaurant at an accelerated clip. The confused cop was left standing there in a muddled daze, furrowing his eyebrows, then doubled back to talk to Sherri again. "What did you say that girl did, again?"

"She was helping them, dating the cute one I think, something like that. She…oh my God…she said she was going to stab me…get her! Get her!" Sherri exploded, pressing the breathing mask back to her lips, for her gasp had become erratic. The policeman's eyes widened. "Requesting back up," He drilled his voice into the radio at his shoulder, "suspect: blonde, early twenties, assumed armed and dangerous approaching Main Street Diner."

Dean turned, panting from the physical exertion, as the uniformed cop entered the room. The policeman stared for a moment, his mind struggling to fathom the scene in front of him. Dean Winchester, knife in hand, covered in blood, knelt in front of his victim. The redheaded form's familiar face was slack, muscles relaxed into a permanent scowl. The wheels in his brain turned fast, 'We just walked her out. This is impossible. No, get a hold of yourself. There is a logical explanation. She has a sister, and that's all.' Dean grinned in obvious amusement as the cop's face contorted into an ever changing mask of horror and confusion. Relishing in the enjoyment of a dumbfounded cop and taking advantage of the horrifically grim situation, he shot the single word, "boo." The policeman snapped back into reality. His face zapped blank of emotion, he was professional once again. This man had killed, and he must be brought to justice.

The S.W.A.T officer raised his gun and barked, "Hand's in the air."

"Okay," Dean was nonchalant and cocky, letting the blood stained knife clatter to the floor and standing up as easily as if nothing was happening. The cop jerked his gun towards the exit, an indication to walk. Dean shrugged and obliged, letting the police fall into step behind him. The knowledge that a gun was waving inches from his back kept him in check as they walked through the dim corridors. He continued through the hallways for a few moments before stopping shortly. The officer, unprepared for the sudden halt, crashed, gun first, into Dean. The barrel of the weapon jabbed Dean in the small of the back while the wielder was stabbed in the stomach by the butt of the rifle. As the startled and unprepared cop's finger slipped onto the trigger, ready to shoot, Dean spun quickly against the side of the gun. His strong hands wrapped around the AR 15, dislodging it from the policeman's grip and, in a fluid movement, smacking him in the head with the base of it. It cracked against his skull and knocked him out easily. Blood seeped from the wound, and Dean bolted away from the scene, gun in hand.

Alyssa had just slipped into the restroom when the alert came in, and the officer outside startled. He, considering himself to be a gentleman, was fighting a moral battle: let the girl have her privacy in the restroom, or interrupt her, going purely off the word of a traumatized person. He wavered between the two extremes, pacing the two step space between the wall and women's restroom door.

Alyssa braced herself on the sink, supporting her weight as she peered at her reflection in the mirror. Tear stained, raccoon eyed messiness covered her face. Yanking a rough brown paper towel from its metal container, she wet it under the faucet and dabbed at her smeared make up. Once her face was clear of product, she set to work. Scanning the room, Alyssa located a partially open window, about eight feet off the ground at its base, and decided her escape route. Dragging a stool across the flooring, she climbed on top and found herself staring at the foot of the opening. Pushing up onto her tiptoes, precariously balancing herself by way of a tight, white knuckled grip on the lip of the window seal, she maintained her balance. She moved to push the window further open, allowing room to slip out, but was interrupted by a hesitant knock at the door, "Miss, I… uh, open up, … please."

"Crap," she hissed. In her rushed and precarious position, she faltered slightly. The dusty surface of the window seal combined with the sudden nervous sweatiness of her palms inhibited her physical ability, and these factors caused her grip to slide from their imperative position. As she stumbled on pointed toes, one foot slipped from the pedestal and her arms flailed in the air, struggling to maintain her balance. "No, no, no," she said these words aloud, but the real anxious annotation was in her mind, 'I can't screw this up for them.'

With renewed determination, her hand caught on the window and she hoisted herself back onto the stool. From that point, she could easily swing her leg through the opening, slip out of the window and disappear into the vast expanse of city. And that is just what she did. Her converse smacked against the pavement and sent crippling shock waves through her legs, but as soon as she recovered she was sprinting into the plethora of buildings.

Dean walked into a darkened room, only to see the unnerving sight of his brother stripping the uniform off one cop while another officer lay passed out nearby, donning only a pair of grey boxers. A small pile of black clothes lay next to them. "Uh," Dean hesitated, "Should I leave you two alone?"

"Funny," Sam remarked dryly, "this is how we're getting out."

"Um, I'm not following," Dean pressed for context. Sam continued to busily remove clothing while Dean stared on in confusion. He explained monotonously, consumed with the task at hand, "we're gonna dress up like the S.W.A.T. officers so no one suspects us and get outta here."

"Ah," Dean realized, his voice sounded completely serious though he was half jesting, "Okay, but I'm not stripping another dude."

"Fine, just put those on," Sam gestured to the discarded uniform, and Dean shrugged but obliged. He slipped on the black shirt over his own and put on the dark pants. All of the gear fit over his own clothing, and, though unbelievably and uncomfortably hot, eliminated the need to carry his garments as they escaped. The same rang true for Sam as he put on the other officers uniform. A dark ski mask, helmet, and heavy black rifles were the final touches, then, with their disguises complete, the brothers stashed the limp bodied cops in a closet and bolted from the scene. Dashing through the corridors and out of the bank, they were unnoticed in their common threads. Their escape continued through the streets and up the levels if a parking garage. Turning and twisting through the lot, the waiting Impala came into view.

Alyssa sat in the back seat waiting. Her erratic breath had not yet subsided to an even drawl, but was growing steadily more concerned and fearful. The lack of Sam and Dean unnerved her more than she could say. "Come on, come on, come on," she chanted, clearly on edge. Her fingers tapped impatiently on the seat, a way to relieve the copious amounts of adrenalin coursing through her veins, a thrill that refused to subside until she knew for sure they were safe. Her gaze skittered nervously around the garage, and she had to bite back a scream when her eyes fell on two uniformed and fully armed S.W.A.T. Unnoticeable to them through the tinted windows, her blue eyes widened in fear. It was almost to the extreme of leaving the impression of a shocked cartoon character. But something about the appearance of the police dissuaded her. Cocking her head to the side and narrowing her eyes to slits, she was scrutinizing every detail. The abnormal height; even though the shorter one was a good 6'2, he was dwarfed by the giant man, a trait attributable of Sam and Dean. She laughed out loud when she made the connection, part out of relieved bliss and part mocking her own stupid unjustified fear.

They slid into the front seats of the Impala, Dean in the driver seat and Sam shotgun. Chests heaving, breathing heavily, they ripped off the helmets and pulled the black ski masks up off their faces. All three hunters sat there not talking, their heavy labored breath left alone to break the silence. A few moments of quiet passed, but, eventually, Dean spoke, "We are so screwed." Those four words condemned them once again to a breathless quiet, and they held placid as the Impala revved her engine and pulled out of town.

Ten miles down the road and the silence was suffocating. Alyssa fidgeted, uncomfortable when left with nothing to do. "So…," she attempted to start a conversation. "So," Sam sighed, "there's something that's been bothering me." Alyssa replied with biting sarcasm, "Really? I never would have guessed."

"Smart ass," Sam chided, and she grinned exaggeratedly. He continued, ignoring her misplaced smugness, "Seriously, though…"

"No!" Alyssa snapped suddenly, her expression changing to a pissed of scowl, "No 'seriously'. Things are too damn serious already." He gave her a weary look while Dean looked surprised by her abrupt outburst. "Lyssa…?" Dean asked, a hint of worry tinging his voice. She shrank back into her seat and folded her arms defensively around her chest. Sounding very much like an angsty teenager, she spat, "what?"

"Relax Lyssie," Sam cautioned, concern prevalent in his tone as well. She reached up to nervously twirl a long, blonde tress of hair around her finger. Her voice quieted some, more unsure than anything at this point, "Yeah? Like you two are so relaxed."

"She's got you there," Dean commented. Sam flashed him a 'you're not helping' look, and impinged, "you seemed really happy to stab the,"

"Bitch-monster," Alyssa supplied. He hesitated, "Um, yeah, sure. Bitch… monster. Anyways, I was wondering, was part of that that she liked Dean?" She laughed slightly, "Two birds."

"Okay then?" Sam wasn't reassured.


	3. Chapter 2

Though just a pile of cloth, a mass of sheets, a bed can be the most comforting thing in the world. It is warm and soft, its covers wrap around you like arms, catching and captivating. It is difficult force to breech when you have to pull yourself away. This feat becomes herculean when one is impossibly tangled with a sleeping Dean Winchester. Alyssa's left cheek was pressed against him, using his bare chest as a pillow, and one of his hands was loosely entangled in her hair. His other arm ensnared her body to his. Alyssa tried to pull away, but, even in slumber, his grip was iron. She managed to wiggle an arm free, and used it to repetitively, annoyingly, poke his cheek in hopes of rousing him. "Dean?" Alyssa whispered, her voice was hoarse from the perpetual silence of sleep, "Dean, wake up. Let go. I've gotta take a shower." His eyes were closed still, his response was a drowsy, guttural moan, and he complained, "No, stay."

"Dean…" she pleaded to be let go, yet he only held her tighter. She pouted, "Please."

"Fine," he relented. "Aw," her voice was heavy with sarcasm, "really? Thank you." Though her words were intended to sting, being short with him had never been her strong suit, and she always reverted back into sweet gestures and soft 'I love you's. As she began to retreat she fleeting kissed the first section of visible flesh her mouth encountered; the small pressure point where his collarbone intersected. But, when she attempted to sit up, a strong hold kept her rooted to the spot. Huffing angrily, she collapsed back onto his chest. He smirked down at her. "Only," he clarified smugly, "If I can come with you." She seemed to contemplate this offer, her eyes acquiring a pensive glow. He looked at her with exasperation while she mulled it over, and his fingers drummed impatiently on her exposed lower back. "No," her words shocked him. He raised a questioning eyebrow, and she earnestly explained, words shooting from her mouth in a jumbled array, "It's just that I'm all sweaty from last night, and I've got to wash my hair, and you distract me, so really it's your own fault."

"My fault?" he defended, "how is it my fault you're crazy?"

"How am I crazy?" she snapped. "Because," he paused languorously, using the white, blank expanse of time to roll them over. They now lay facing each other, Alyssa on her back with her pillow cushioned head turned towards him, eyes diverted up so that she could see his face, as he was propped up on his elbow. He continued, "You don't want to fuck me."

"And that makes me crazy? Aren't you full of it. Anyways, it's not that I don't want to…"

"Oh, so you do want to?" he hadn't given her a chance to finish. She rolled her eyes, pissed that he had interrupted her over something so typical for a guy to say, and continued in a mockingly giddy baby talk, "You're cute when you're practically begging me."

"Honey," he declared cockily, "I don't beg." She giggled, "Really? Then what was that?" His hand slipped down to cup her ass, complementing the self-assured words he spoke, "Maybe I was seducing you."

"Oh really? And how is that going?" she teased. "Pretty good," he played along, maintaining the smug composure, "considering you're in bed with me."

"Not for long," she forewarned, she jerked away from him and rolled out of bed, but again, her efforts were in vain. He grabbed her waist right as she was on the edge of the mattress, and yanked her back against him. Shrieking with glee, she tumbled into his arms, and this time he held her tightly. His embrace was warm, and it melted all walls of certitude she had once maintained. She hung her head in shame; the sideways angle pressed her forehead against his shoulder. She hated to admit defeat, and cussed at the lost game, "Damn."

"I win," he announced, casually cupping her face, running his thumb smoothly over her cheek bone. He kissed her lips softly, once, twice. She emitted a small contented sound, and smiled sleepily, her eyes drooping closed. "See," her voice was muted, clouded by a fog of pleasure, "distracting."

He put gentle pressure on her cheek, pulling her face closer to his. Dean kissed her hard, sucking slightly on her bottom lip. Two years they had been together, and he had never once failed to make her heart beat faster. In time to the erratic pulsing, they kissed fervently, gripping each other as if to life. His tongue was warm as it ran across her lower lip, and she granted him access to the inner regions of her mouth. He broke the kiss momentarily and sat leaning against the head board of the motel room's double bed. The lack of contact berated her as the cool, air conditioned breeze hit her desire warmed lips, and sent her scrambling up to him. The cover of sheets fell off of them as they sat up, her straddling him, divulging Dean's mostly unclothed body, a pair of boxers being the only garment to speak of, and Alyssa in one of Dean's t-shirts that she unashamedly let fall to a few mere inches below her hips. Her legs were exposed and taut as she stretched up to him. Their lips met again, eager and persistent, but Alyssa pulled her mouth away and resting her forehead against his. She use this position for leverage, retreating every time he tried again to kiss her. Leaving him to stew in anger at her teasing, she looked up at him innocently, maddening him even more by appearing to not understand how frustrating she was. He growled, "Hate you."

"Love you," she crooned, pressing a kiss onto his cheek. He tried to take advantage of the situation by turning to meet her lips as she dove in for another peck, but she pulled away giggling, "not so fun when it's you not getting what you want, now is it?"

"I think this is what you wanted all along," he accused, smirking. Her grin grew, "oh is it?" He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever his retort, it was lost as Alyssa pulled herself back to him. They kissed passionately, tongues battling for dominance inside their melded mouths. Dean's tongue trace across the side of Alyssa's, and her soft pleasure filled groan was garbled by ragged breathing. He pulled away just enough to shift his lips against her neck. She tilted her head back and moaned louder. "How…much…time…do we...have?" Dean whispered between kisses. Alyssa struggled to form a coherent thought, and forcing it from her mouth was even harder. He took her breath away. "We…uh, Sam left about a," her panting was haggard, "a half hour ago."

"So, what…two…hours?" he had settled on a tender spot right under her jaw bone, and was berating it with feather light kisses. She tried to speak, but it emerged a blissfully tangled moan. Dean grinned against her neck, obviously proud of his work. When she felt him smile against her skin, she let it turn the corners of her mouth up. As he worked his way back up to her lips, his fingers traced the hem of her shirt, and gently tugged it away from her body.

Sam flipped through the patient file as he walked down the blinding white hallway of the psych ward. The clipboard was littered with arrest records, minor crimes like petty theft and attempted shoplifting, but the most shocking aspect were the mug shots. In every one, her blue eyes were wide, wet, crazed, and intoxicated. She donned hooker make-up plastered on up to her heavily penciled eyebrows. The brightly colored eye shadow contrasted sharply with her caked on foundation, and created an electric affect. But, the bubblegum lipstick smeared across her face was the main thesis; she was a slut.

Sam flipped the clipped papers back to the top sheet, it contained her basic information. Her name, Gloria Sitnick, was typed across the top of the paper in bold typewriter font, but the rest of the information was a messy doctor's scrawl spilling out of its prim little designated boxes. Gloria was diagnosed with paranoia and religious psychosis. That much he could make out. Sam squinted at the room number, it was illegibly curly, and the bet he could extract was either 390 or 340. He glanced up at the quickly passing room numbers, settling his sights on 340, for no other reason than it was the closest, he hoped this was the right room. With a deep hopeful breath, he pushed open the door. 'Crap,' he mentally swore, this had to be the wrong room, for the woman on the bed looked nothing like the painted whore of the many mug shots. This woman was neat and combed, her face clean and shiny. For God's sake she was reading the Bible! Yet there were similarities, face shape, eye color. "Gloria?" Sam asked halfheartedly, clearly expecting this to be the wrong room. Greatly to his surprise, she turned at the sound of the name. He did a double take, eyes dancing between the pictures on the clipboard and the woman in front of him. "Good morning. You're not the usual guy," the calm atmosphere surrounding her words was icing on the shock-filled cake. Sam gathered his wits, "No, uh, just filling in. So how you feeling today, Gloria?"

"I've never felt better," she grinned. His thoughts were biting sarcasm, 'in this place? Yeah, she's completely sane.' But, outwardly, he was a façade of professionalism, "So, no disturbances lately?"

"You mean am I stark raving cuckoo for coco puffs?" she was good humored, and Sam responded with the utmost kindness, an easy sympathy filling his puppy dog eyes, "I didn't say that."

"It's all right. I know what people must think," her voice was soft as cotton and betrayed no hint of sadness. She was all smiles in her fluffy, white bathrobe. Her happiness was almost to the point of derangement. "What do you think?" Sam prodded. She answered without hesitation, "I think what I saw was real." Sam nodded slowly, then pulled up a chair. Intrigued, and letting it show all over his face, he leaned towards her, "I'd like to know what you saw."

"It was all over the news," she plainly explained, "I stabbed a man in the heart."

"Why would you do that?" he was a little taken aback by her simplicity. Gloria grinned broadly and spoke proudly, "Because it was God's will." Sam spoke carefully, every word was precise and calculatedly placed, so as not to offend her, "Did God talk to you?"

"No. I get the sense God's a little busy for house calls. No, he, he sent someone," she attempted another joke, but instead of inspiring bubbly laughter, it fell flat and fluttered to the floor like a discarded piece of paper. "Someone?"

"An angel," she explained cheerfully, "It came to me in this beautiful white light, and it filled me with this feeling. It's . . . it's hard to describe."

"And this angel..." this was Sam's signal to continue, and she complied easily, "Spoke God's Word."

"And the 'Word' was to kill someone?" Sam elucidated. Gloria sighed sadly, a sure sign she had been asked this before, and was quite plausibly providing a cookie cutter answer, "I know, it sounds strange. But what I did was very important. I helped him smite an evil man. I was chosen. For redemption." Sam nodded again, "This man you stabbed, did the angel give you his name?" Gloria looked slightly perplexed, this was not as tired question, and she didn't have a quick answer. Her voice was slow and careful, "No. . . he just told me to wait for the sign." Her voice was beginning to gather strength as she became firmer in her decision. "And the very next day I saw it, right beside the man's doorway. And I knew."

"Why him?" Sam probed. Another easy question. "I just know what the angel told me: that this man was guilty to his deepest foundations. And that was good enough for me." The finality of these last words was palpable in the air, and Sam left.

Dean had long since grown tired of listening to the steady pitter patter of water on the tiled shower floor, and had been forced to seek other means of entertainment. He lay back, spread eagle, on the bed as it vibrated under the rule of the "Magic Fingers" feature. All his senses were occupied in a blissful Smörgåsbord; classic rock music blared from headphones, the familiar musk of sex grew stale in the air, and his eyes fell on nothing but the euphoric darkness of the inside of his eyelids. A content smile draped across his lips. So lost in the peace of this endeavor, he failed to notice Sam's entrance. "Hey," Sam, now dressed in jeans and a dark red sweater taut over his broad chest, called. Dean didn't hear him, and Sam smacked Dean on the boot, "Hey!" Dean jumped at the sudden contact, then, once he realized Sam was vying for his attention, he yanked the headphones out of his ears.

Alyssa heard Sam enter, and pulled herself away from the warm comfort of the shower. Water droplets cascaded from her naked body, and she reached through the steam for a towel to catch them. The material her fingers found was threadbare. "Cheap motels," she mumbled her complaint, an attitude only accentuated by the way the skimpy material barely covered her butt. Her eyes scoured the room for her clothing, being half naked, with only a towel as defense, around Dean when one is trying to work is not the brightest idea. She wheeled around, finding no jeans, no flash of cotton shirt, not even her damn FBI getup, she was even desperate enough to wear that. "And of course," she further assessed her situation, "I forgot my clothes out there." She glared disdainfully at the closed door, and, wrapping the disappointing towel tightly around herself, she grabbed the door handle. She opened the door with purpose and walked towards her suitcase. Dean's eyes wondered to her, tracing the lines of her body, watching droplets of cool water flow down her almost naked figure. Sam's stare was still locked on Dean, who was neglecting to answer. Eventually he followed his brother's gaze to Alyssa's barely covered, dripping body. He averted his gaze quickly, embarrassed eyes dropping to the floor, and felt fire spread to his cheeks. Dean, on the other hand, couldn't rip his gaze away. He was imagining scooping her up, throwing her back onto the bed, climbing on top . . . "Hey!" Sam snapped, "Dean!"

"Hey," he responded, yet he didn't move his gaze, or mind, from his girlfriend. He continued to ogle her while trying to hold a conversation. His words were distracted and empty, "Man, you gotta try this. I mean there really is magic in the Magic Fingers."

"Dean, you're enjoying that way too much, it's kind of making me uncomfortable. That, and the way you're looking at her," Sam shifted awkwardly, and Alyssa turned around, still clutching the towel to her. "Wha…?" she started, then she saw the lust darkened eye of Dean and grinned. Slowly, slightly, she shifted the towel up her body. An inch, maybe two, of her ass showed, but that was enough; Dean had to bite his lip to keep from moaning aloud. Sam's eyes widened in shock; they didn't normally do this kind of stuff around him, besides the odd mention, their sex life stayed private. Dean, mainly to distract himself, retorted Sam's comment, "What am I supposed to do? I mean, you've got me on lockdown here, and that one decides to take a freaking 45 minute long shower. I'm bored out of my skull."

"Hey, you were the bank robber on the eleven o'clock news, not me. We can't risk you just walking into a government facility," Sam defended himself, "and would you two stop that?"

"What?" they asked in unison. Sam rolled his eyes, "the way you're looking at each other. You're practically eye-fucking right in front of me!"

"Hmm . . . Baby?" He called Alyssa by her pet name. She looked at him, waiting for him to continue. He did, "Come here." Dean patted the still vibrating bed next to him, and she walked a few strides closer to him. When she was close enough to him, he lunged. Grabbing her, cradling her towel clad form bridal style, he spun her around a few times. Her joyful laugh was music, her eyes twinkling Christmas lights as she tried to keep herself covered. Dean smiled down at her playfully and dropped them both down on the bed. They bounced a little bit at the hands of the mattress, but ultimately ended up sitting next to each other. She was grinning when they first landed, but, when the vibrating started shimmying through her body, the smile dropped. She was petrified on the covers for all of two seconds before clambering into Dean's lap and away from the quivering bed. She frowned up at him. "Can you turn that off?" she gestured to the bed. He flashed her a strange look, "No. Why?"

"I don't like it," she frowned at the small 'Magic Fingers' controller. "Why?" his eyes acquired a teasing glow, and he whispered in her ear, "Does it turn you on?"

"Maybe," she blushed. A voracious grin flashed across his face, and his hand slid down her inner thigh. Her blush deepened, for she was very aware Sam was still in the room. Dean felt warm against her chilly skin and it took all of her willpower not to sink into his touch. She looked down and whispered, her embarrassed voice barely audible, "stop." This wasn't the type of plea one would act on, her voice was too pathetically reluctant and they were both too horny to have put too much strength behind the words, but he stopped all the same. Sensing he had gone too far, his eyes switched from glinting playfully to somber and understanding. "Okay, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss into her hair. She smiled contently, and slung an arm around his shoulders, hugging herself to him. "Later," she promised. Giving him one last quick squeeze and climbed out of his lap to change.

Alyssa disappeared into the bathroom just as the Magic Fingers' motor sputtered and coughed. The once lively bed gave one last pitiful shake and fell dormant. "Aw, damnit!" Dean grumbled, "That was my last quarter. Hey! You got any quarters?"

"No," Sam's voice was an annoyed monotone as he glared at Dean. Dean called through the bathroom door, undeterred, "Lyss, you got any quarters?"

"Wha?" she questioned, eyebrows raised expectantly, she had heard his voice but couldn't make out the words. She walked out of the bathroom clad in denim shorts and a black tank top. In one hand she clutched a burgundy varsity jacket, balled up in the other was the slept-in black shirt. She tossed his shirt at him, and it sailed straight into his waiting hand, a pattern that could be likened to a crow's flight. Dean's fingers easily curled around the dark cotton, and he tossed it back onto the floor by his duffle. "Quarters," he reiterated, "you got any?"

"Yes," she replied cautiously, hoping that the change wasn't intended for the dreaded 'Magic Fingers' machine. Her pleas went unheard as Dean held out his hand, "Awesome. Gimme."

"For that _thing_?" she spit the words out as if they were dirty, "no." Dean shrugged apathetically and they both moved on, their differences forgotten in a matter of seconds. Alyssa tugged into her jacket and leaned against the tacky motel wall, she was flanked by textured green plaster. "So," Dean addressed Sam, "did you get in to see that crazy hooker?"

"Yeah. Gloria Sitnick," Sam hesitated slightly, testing the waters in preparation for his next statement, "And I'm not so sure she's crazy." Dean gave him an 'uh-huh' face, notes of condescending sarcasm, played through his words, "But she seriously believes she was touched by an angel?"

"Yeah," he spoke slowly, very aware he sounded a little crazy himself, and trying to get his point across without being completely dismissed, Blinding light, feelings of spiritual ecstasy, the works." He took a thankful breath, finally finding something that could support his opinion. He voice was paced faster, gathering confidence as well as speed, "I mean, she's living in a locked ward and she's totally at peace." Dean scoffed, "Oh yeah, you're right, that sounds completely sane." The superiority disappeared, replaced only with curiosity for his next statement, "What about the dude she stabbed?"

"Uh, Carl Gully. She said she killed him because he was evil," Sam replied. Alyssa shrugged slightly, as if to say 'fair enough', and she probably would have, had Dean's next question not been so immediate. "Was he?"

"I don't know. I mean, I couldn't find any dirt on him. I mean, he didn't have a criminal record, he worked over at the campus library, had lots of friends," Sam looked at Dean purposefully, "he was a churchgoer."

"Hm. So then Gloria's just your standard-issue wacko," Dean surmised, "I mean, she wouldn't be the first nutjob in history to kill in the name of religion, know what I mean?" Sam was growing impatient at the constant undermining, and he words poured out a little stickily, "No, but she's the second in town to murder because an angel told them to. Little odd, don't you think?"

"Well, odd yes, supernatural maybe. But angels? I don't think so."

"Why not?" Sam's inquiry was short and irritated, but there were underlying tones of pure curiosity. "Because there's no such thing, Sam," he said it as if it were obvious, and Alyssa looked away uncomfortably, her jaw set in an objecting stance. She didn't say anything though, just let the scene play out in front of her. "Dean," Sam laughed, "there's ten times as much lore about angels as there is about anything else we've ever hunted."

"Yeah, you know what?" Dean was on the defensive now, "There's a ton of lore on unicorns too. In fact, I hear that they, they ride on silver moonbeams, and they shoot rainbows out of their ass." Sam's face turned shocked, eyebrows furrowing sadly over his pleading eyes, and he lowered himself slowly onto a bed. He sounded hurt, "Wait, there's no such thing as unicorns?" Dean opened his mouth to respond, thinking his brother was serious, but then realization dawned. "That's cute," he mocked, sardonically, "That's cute. I'm just saying, man, there's just some legends that you just, you file under 'bullcrap'."

"And you've got _angels_ on the bullcrap list," Sam impinged. "Yep," Dean reported mater-of-factly. Sam snapped, "Why?" They were growing more and more agitated with each sentence, every breath only fueling the fire. "Because I've never seen one."

"So what?"

"So, I believe in what I can see," Dean kept arguing, but Alyssa was growing very tired of listening to them jump down each other's throats. She sat up from the wall and crossed the room in a few quick strides. The bed squeaked a little as she sat down, but the high pitched grating was a welcome improvement over listening to them argue. Unfortunately, that was the only sound she could find sufficient to tune out the Winchesters, short of just flat out screaming. She reluctantly listened to their droning argument. "Dean!" Sam exclaimed, "We've have seen things that most people couldn't even dream about." Dean's longwinded reply was border line ranting, "Exactly. With our own eyes, that's hard proof, okay? But in all this time I have never seen anything that looks like an angel. And don't you think that if they existed that we would have crossed paths with them? Or at least know someone that crossed paths with them? No. This is a, a demon or a spirit, you know, they find people a few fries short of a happy meal, and they trick them into killing these randoms."

"Maybe. Wait," Sam stopped suddenly, and Dean gave him a tired look. His whole self dripping with impatience. "Alyssa," Sam called. She looked up at him, eyes pleading as she shook her head 'no'. He knitted his face into a puppy dog eyed beg, "Please." It was as if his eyes were boring into her heart, worming their way through her defense. 'Crap,' she thought, 'he should just give that look to demons, they would just exorcise themselves.' Sighing, she gave averseness one last valiant effort, "You already know what I think."

"Oh does he?" Dean looked at her, a hint of jealousy simmering just under the surface, though anger was not shy about shining through, "And how's that?"

"We talked about it. Not this job, but just faith in general," Alyssa explained sheepishly, shrinking at Dean's irritation. Sam smirked triumphantly, even though the battle had not yet been won. He was expectant, and urged her to continue, "And…"

"Do I have to pick a side?" Alyssa appealed, "Can I make up my own?"

"Okay," the grin on Sam's face disappeared. Alyssa winced at the dejection in his eyes, flashing him an apologetic look, attempting to convey her regret through her eyes. He smiled and shook his head, mouthing the words 'it's fine.' Dean was tuned into their silent conversation, the understanding and friendship that flowed freely between them, but was steadily growing more impatient. His words came out an agitated bark, "Enough with the chick flick, you can do each other's hair later. Get on with it." They both turned to him, matching glares highlighting their consensus at the interrupted moment. But Alyssa was genuinely incapable of staying mad at Dean, or Sam for that matter, and switched from defense to referee. She attempted to settle both parties, "I agree with both of you… kind of…. I believe in angels, but I don't think this is."

"Why not?" Sam was intrigued. She shook her head and bit her lip, a sure sign she doubted herself, "I don't really know. I mean, it doesn't really seem like something an angel would do. Thou shall not kill, you know? It's like rule number one." She looked thoughtful for a moment, then amended her statement. "More like rule number six," she corrected herself.

"You believe in angels?" Dean mocked her. Hurt flashed through her blue eyes, as she fell victim to his disbelief, it made her shrink further back, but she looked him in the eye as she spoke, "Yeah, angels, God, the whole nine yards. It makes sense . . . to me at least." She tapered off, trying to gauge Dean's reaction. He had a patient smile on, the kind one wears when humoring an ignorant child, but it didn't reach his eyes. They swam with emotion; regret, pain, and she sensed this crack in his thinking. She chipped away at it more, giving him a chance to believe in the good in the world, "there are demons, so there must be a devil, and the devil is a fallen angel, so there must be angels. Angels are the warriors of heaven, and heaven, God. So, yeah, I believe."

"Yeah," he pressed, sounding very patronizing, "right."

"And HOLY water, and exorcism's are pretty much all in the name of the heavenly father we cast thee out, God almighty, and so on."

"Can we just," Dean started, sighing heavily and rubbing his hand down his jaw, wiping away the emotions he wasn't quite ready to deal with, "I'm going stir-crazy here. Hey, let's go by Gloria's apartment, huh?" Sam shook his head, "I was just there. Nothing. No sulfur, no EMF."

"You didn't see any fluffy white wing feathers?" Dean grinned. "No," Sam gritted, rolling his eyes, "But Gloria did say the angel gave her a sign, right beside Carl Gully's doorway." That brought a smile to Dean's face. "Could be something at his house worth checking out," he spoke so eagerly that Alyssa half expected him to start bouncing up and down with excitement, but of course Dean was much to cool for that.

Carl Gully's house wasn't anything special, just run of the mill suburbia. It wasn't exactly picture perfect, a little more realistic than that, the grass wasn't lush and vibrant, merely slightly overgrown and mostly weeds. Crab grass sprang up through cracks in the driveway, and was avoided as the trio of hunters approached the front porch. Dean and Alyssa headed the small party, walking side by side, hands intertwined. It was as physical as they could be without attracting unwanted attention. Sam trailed a few feet behind them, hands stuffed in his pockets.

A plastic, Hallmark-style angel leaned against the doorframe, a feature Dean couldn't help but comment on. "Oh hey, Sam. I think I found it. It's a sign from up above. Well, I think I learned a valuable lesson: Always take down your Christmas decorations after New Year's, or you might get filleted by a hooker from God." He looked back at Sam smirking, "Ha."

"I'm laughing on the inside," Sam assured him, throwing an eye roll towards Alyssa. She chuckled slightly at them both, their banter had gotten to the point of being laughably ridiculous.

Sam cocked his head to the side and squinted at something in the backyard. Motioning for Dean and Alyssa to follow, he wandered around the side of the house, thought he gate of a white picket fence, and parked himself in front of a storm cellar's doors. It was a traditional passage, a heavy wrought iron bolt pinching two weathered wood doors together. "You know," Sam disclosed, "Gloria said the guy was guilty 'to his deepest foundations'."

"You think she literally meant the foundation?" Dean inquired. He shrugged, "it's worth a shot." With that, Dean dropped Alyssa's hand and slid the metal lock out of place. The doors creaked as they opened, as if an ominous threat of what was to come. Behind the flaps was a portal of darkness, something that, if entered, promised to never return you. "You know," Alyssa commented, mocking the same tone of voice Sam had portrayed earlier, "in movies, this is the part where we get locked in and ax murdered."

"Nice visual, Lyssa. Very reassuring," Sam was sarcastic. She beamed broadly, "It's a talent."

Sam and Dean fished flashlights from their pockets, clicking them on to illuminate the expanse of black before them. Alyssa, being without, stuck closer to Dean than his own shadow, and they began their descent down the rickety steps. She held her breath the whole time, convinced just the little motion of respiration would cause the stairs to crumble. Each step felt like an eternity, little groans of weakened wood punctuating long years. When she felt solid ground beneath her feet, she let ring a jubilant sigh of relief. They stood in the little square of light that flooded through the open cellar doors, and were disappointed by what they saw. Nothing was blatantly out of the ordinary, in fact, nothing seemed like it had been used for years, if even at all. The floors were nothing but dirt and grime, no flooring or finish to be found. The walls told the same story, just more densely packed earth. Dean sighed, and took Alyssa to search with him further into the pit. Sam did the same, heading the other way.

Minutes passed without any substantial proof of any wrongdoing, then, just as Dean was about to suggest they give up, Sam summoned their attention to the other side of the room. "You got something?" Dean called, walking to where Sam was kneeling. Shallow scratches marred the wall near the floor. A thin item protruded from the marks, and Sam raked at the wall himself, flakes of soil tumbled to the floor like gently falling snow. With muddied hands, he extracted a small, dirt encrusted object, turning it in his fingers. Dean queried, "What is it?"

"It," Sam frowned in disgust, "is a fingernail." He held up the nail for them to see, but it wasn't the body part that Alyssa was focused on. Her gaze centered on something hidden in shadow, a vague form in an uncharted portion of cellar. It appeared to be leaning against the wall, a few feet tall, and very thin. She walked into the shadows, straight to the foreign object, and called back, "hey, guys? I think something's buried down here." Dean pointed his flashlight to her, drowning her in a flood of light. Their eyes met, and she jerked her head towards the wall. A simple wooden shovel leaned casually against the compacted soil. She picked it up, carrying it back to Sam and Dean. She passed it off to Dean, who stood waiting with his palm up. He immediately plunged the shovel into the earth, scooping and flinging the dirt away. A shallow scoop came along slowly. No matter how strong, a single person isn't able to do much fast. Dive, scoop, flick away, dive, scoop, and flick away, this pattern repeated for a few hot minutes before Sam intervened. "I'm getting more shovels from the trunk," he announced, and, never breaking rhythm, Dean tossed him the car keys. Sam padded back up the steps and out into the lit world, and returned moments later.

With three of them digging, the hole progressed much faster. The shove of metal into dirt hurried in rapid succession. Six feet deep, and they struck gold. Dean's shovel was the first to make contact, and he knelt to examine it further. His fingers brushed the top of the rock hard surface, sweeping the clinging particles to the side. The grimy yellowed skull looked elusively like something one would find hidden in the closet of a science classroom, though that version would be idealized, milky white and perfect. What they had in front of them was barely recognizable, shattered and broken. They had seen enough dead bodies in their time that this was no great shock, and the only emotion they displayed was sorrow at the death of this stranger. With a calm precision, Dean dusted further down. More of the body was revealed, all blemished. They only variable that could be relied upon was the filthy dress sagging over the bones. "I'll bet that's not the only one," Alyssa's tone was somber, in mourning for the Jane Doe. They all picked back up their shovels, gripping tight for another stretch of digging.

A deep pit revealed four victims, all female, all fully decomposed. Sam, Dean, and Alyssa perched on the edge of the hollow, Sam and Dean staring straight ahead, and Alyssa with her face buried in her hands. To will herself not to cry for these poor, dead girls was an incredible feat. Sam was glum when he spoke, "So much for the innocent churchgoing librarian."

"Yeah, well," Dean agreed, equally subdued, "whatever spoke to Gloria about this knew what it was talking about, I'll give you that." He sighed heavily before continuing, "I'll go call the cops, you two go back to the room."

"No," Sam pointedly disagreed. Dean flashed him a look, and Sam replied calmly, "You aren't going out in public yet. Alyssa and I'll go."

"Fine," Dean growled. He stormed up the stairs, then whipped around, "Ya coming?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam sighed, pushing himself out of the hole and brushing the dirt off of his jeans. He extended a hand to Alyssa, helping her out. "Thanks," she smiled, shaking out her own clothing. They walked up towards the exit, wiping their fingerprints as they went, so as to not leave any evidence behind. As the heavy wood doors were closing on their endeavor, Alyssa whispered her good bye to the murdered girls below, "I'm so sorry." With finality, the stiff slates and metal dead bolt were cleaned, and they left.

Dean drove into town. He hadn't said a word to them the whole twelve minute drive, still sullen that he was being condemned to stay alone in the room, and, for further punishment, without the Magic Finger machine's meal of choice. He pulled up by the curb, and, leaving the motor running, motioned for them to get to it. Sam and Alyssa stepped out of the Impala, sincerely contrite that they couldn't bring Dean along, but there was no chance in hell he would listen to apologies. Not with the mood he was in. "Hey," Alyssa stopped him from driving away with a soft comfort, "We'll pick up lunch. Love you." Dean breathed deeply, shrugging away the anger, or at least controlling it, "Love you, too." She kissed him quickly, through the rolled down driver's side window, before walking to where Sam was on the curb.

The Impala drove away, leaving them by the payphone. Sam fished some change from his pocket, and their jingle was bells as they slid into the coin slot of the cobalt phone. "You did have quarters!" Alyssa laughed. He snorted, "Like I'm going to enable him."

"I'd like to report remains in the storm cellar of 4842 Windsward Place . . . Anonymous," Sam filed his report with the 911 call center, and, hung up. Alyssa watched as Sam disposed of his fingerprints, discarding the tissue in a nearby trash can, then they started to the grocery store. They were quiet for a little while as they walked, a comfortable sort of silence though, before Alyssa made an off handed comment, "Dean didn't seem too happy 'bout being left behind."

"He'll get over it," he shrugged apathetically, to which she, agreeing, nodded. She fell silent again after that, giving the meager conversation a tired lull. The only sound passing between them was the rolling smack of the rock Alyssa was absentmindedly kicking across the pavement. In the style of a soccer player, she forced the granite chunk to precede them. She lost the rock as they rounded the corner onto 2nd Street, for she had not anticipated the curve when she kicked, and the stone had tumbled into the street. Lacking the will to retrieve it, she stayed on the side walk and continued on her way. "Hmm…" she wasn't aware that she had groaned aloud, and went on as if nothing had happened. Sam glanced down at her, "Whatcha thinking?"

"Nothin'" she shrugged off his question. He smiled patiently, sincerely, sensing that, in truth, she was dying to get it off her chest. With much deliberation, she responded, "I just . . . I don't get it."

"Get what?" Sam was the best person to talk to like this, he listened intently and didn't hole up behind a wall of sarcasm and jokes. "I . . . I don't know why, after seeing so much bad in the world, that he doesn't want to believe in something so good." It didn't take a genius to figure what she was talking about, and Sam nodded with understanding. He wavered before speaking, "I think I know why."

"Well," she stipulated impatiently, "care to enlighten me?"

"It's about our mom," He started, and her eyes grew wide. "Oh, um," she stuttered hurriedly, such heavy topics weren't exactly her strong suit, and she hated to burden others with a weighty subject. "You don't have to talk about it. Not if you don't want to."

"It's okay, I don't really remember her," There was sadness traced through his voice, painted over with an easy nature, "But, um, she used to say 'angels are watching over us'. That was the last thing she said to him before, before…" Alyssa nodded quickly that she understood, giving him a way out of a painful subject. She leaned over and wrapped her arms around his stomach. It was awkward due to the fact that they were walking, but she gave him a hug all he same. It must have been strange to witness, a mobile ungainly hug on a street corner, but stranger's glances weren't on their minds. Their embrace was short lived though, seeing as it was so uncomfortable to move in that position. The regressed to walking side by side.

Suddenly, Sam asked her, "Do you remember your parents much?" It was her turn to have sadness glaze over her eyes, and she bit her lip to keep from choking up. "I'm not really sure," she was vague, at first, in her answers, not having many memories to go on, "I was only about three when they disappeared."

"But," she continued, "I do have one . . . somewhat memory."

"Somewhat?" He appeared interested, his eyes intently focused on her. She laughed awkwardly. "Yeah. I'm not sure if it's real. I think," she paused dramatically, "that my mom used to sing to me." Alyssa was smiling by the end of her sentence, consumed by the tenderness of the memory, feeling her mother's warmth around her again. Sam smiled as well, the grin on Alyssa's face could warm anyone's heart. "Any specific song?" he probed her to keep talking, to keep the happiness clear on her face. She gladly continued, "Thank You by Led Zeppelin. I think that's why I like it so much."

"Makes sense."

"Mmmm hmmm. And I think I had a sister, too," once she started talking, the words fell easily out of her mouth, "either that or a really good friend. There's a lot of fragments of me with another girl around the age I was. We have matching dresses sometimes." Sam chuckled, causing her to laugh a little, too. But the bliss faded as quickly as it had come. Her voice got a little quieter for her next memory, and the joyful grin on her face was replaced by a pensive stare, "I remember the day they left. I remember that really well. They dropped me off at a neighbor's saying they had to run some errands and would be back soon. The neighbors had a few kids and a bunny. I LOVED that bunny. Me and the girl I think might be my sister dressed it up in doll clothes." Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, but the smile had somewhat returned to her face. It was tainted though, pain attempting to drag it back down. The bittersweet contrast of the memory played out like a movie in her eyes. The emotions in them flicking in scene change. In small comfort, Sam grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly, he cared for her and hated seeing her hurt. Her voice cracked slightly as she spoke her next statement, the true horror of the memories, "Anyways, they didn't come back for a few hours. The neighbor thought it was a little strange, but I'm sure she just thought they were running late. Then it was too late for them to be shopping. The stores had closed. I think I spent the night there for the first few days, but Child Protective stepped in, and I was shipped off to foster care."

"I'm sorry," Sam sympathized, never letting her hand go, for she was squeezing hard now, unwilling to drop for fear she might break. Alyssa seemed a little bitter as she finished her story, annoyed at the choices her neighbor had made, "She found me, the neighbor, years later. Said she was sorry, that she would have kept me, but she had her own kids, you know." Alyssa wiped at her damp cheeks, pushing the tears roughly away, "I hate crying." She shook her head and rolled her eyes at herself, a chastisement for showing emotion. She had her share of weepiness, and, though it wasn't an abnormally desperate amount, it was what she hated most about herself. "I'm sorry," Sam repeated, "I know you don't like to talk about it a lot."

"Well, you don't like to talk about your mom, so I guess we're even."

"Guess so." Sam let go of her hand, for the time of need had ended, but he never stopped supporting her. It wasn't necessarily anything he said or did, but something tangible in the air around them, like the static charge of a storm. "I like talking to you," she admitted, "you're like my best friend."

"Like?" Sam snorted, drawing a laugh out of her. "Okay, okay. You are my best friend." She giggled again, then looked away, staring off into the blank expanse of sky. Sam couldn't see her face, and, in the beginning, there was nothing particularly abnormal about this, but, as minutes passed, he grew steadily more alarmed. "Lyssie?" He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, slowing down their pace to that of a snail. She refused to look at him, "Yeah, Sam?" Though she fought hard to keep it in check, her voice sounded broken, not the usual cracking of emotion, but truly shattered. "What's wrong, Alyssa?"

"Nothing's wrong," she whispered. "That's crap," Sam's words could have hurt, if spoken differently, but he made everything he said seem so comforting.

The store came into sight, but it was merely background, for food hadn't even crossed either's mind. Alyssa shivered despite herself as they walked into the market, they had entered directly the frozen food section and were washed in the chill of a giant refrigerator. Their decision was quick; three prepackaged sandwiches. For the most part, Alyssa was absent, her mind wondering somewhere far away. The checkout barely registered in her mind, and they were walking back to the motel with a plastic bag before she spoke again. She turned to him slowly, blue eyes glistening like sapphires with unshed tears. "Can I…," she frowned thoughtfully, forehead creased in intense concentration, "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course." Concern flooded Sam's eyes, and he stopped walking, turning instead to face her. She stopped as well, looking up at him intensely. "It's a horrible thing to say…to think…"

"You can tell me," he reassured her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, looking away in shame. "I . . . I," she couldn't spit it out. No matter how hard she tried, they were caught under the large lump formed in her throat. With great strength, the words forced themselves out, scraping along her throat on their way, "I hope they are dead." Sam tried to hide his shock, tried to bite back the disgust creeping into his eyes. "Why," his voice was blandly monotonous, for it was all he could do not to yell. 'She doesn't know what she's wishing for…'

"I know how that sounds . . ., but I'd rather they be dead than have . . . left . . . me." Sam's eyes softened at her words. Words are nothing unless one knows the meaning behind them. "No one could leave you," he comforted, "you're too sweet." She smiled through her tears. Of all the times he had hid her pain today, this was a final bandage, but that was all it was. Sam could make her forget her pain for the time being, hide it from sight while it festered under the surface, unnoticed. He could make her feel better, but only Dean could truly heal her. When she was with him, she felt nothing but the blindfold of love.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, in the company of a police radio. It was painfully boring business, seeing as most of what comes across is static, with the occasional drunk and disorderly peppering in. Long stretches of time spread across the motel room, and he wasn't exactly sure for what great expanse of time they had been gone. It seemed like forever before an intriguing message came through the stagnant crinkling. A female voice reported the news, garbled as it was by police scanner code, "We've got a minor TA, involving a motorcycle and a, uh van, this is at the corner of 28th and Pine, 28th and Pine."

Alyssa and Sam entered then, and it was evident Alyssa had been crying. The cried tears formed a trailing sheen across her cheeks, and her eyes seemed to sparkle. Dean stood up immediately, crossing to her in a few quick strides. His warm calloused hand was gentle as he cupped her face, thumb wiping at the sticky, drying tears. His other arm held her close, and he looked down at her lovingly. The caressing on her face slipped into protective arms around her back, holding her tight to him. His chin rested on the top of her head, while her arms wrapped around his chest. It was like switching a light switch. Dean had been light with his girlfriend, every touch purposefully comforting and gentle, but, as soon as his gaze broke from her, he darkened. Suddenly, he would be fiercely adamant; no one hurts his girl. Sam was caught in the cross fire as Dean searched for someone to blame, and he bore the brunt of Dean's angry words, "What happened?" Sam opened his mouth to defend himself, but Alyssa cut him off, "Nothing happened. We were just talking."

"You couldn't have been 'just talking', baby," he spoke softly soft with her, a sharp contrast to the guarded behavior with which he regarded everyone else. He rubbed her back with slow, lazy circles, every round nudging her further into him. "But," she protested softly, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, "we _were_ just talking. About my parents."

"Why?" He went back to glaring at Sam, sure that he had somehow provoked this, certain that Alyssa wouldn't be the one to bring up such an upsetting topic. She pulled back, and, though keeping her arms wrapped tight around him, she looked up at the glare passing between the brothers. "Dean," she brought his gaze back down to her, "I brought it up. And, anyways, I'm fine now." Dean wasn't assured by the sudden change, and searched for evidence of joy restored. He pulled out of her grasp. Now holding her at arm's length, he searched her eyes. There, instead of the sadness he expected, there was barely the faintest trace of wounds. Her moods passed at break-neck speed. Their change something palpable, the quickness blinding. But she had an explanation for everything, and whenever anyone commented on it, her reply was always the same self-assured thought, 'It's because I think too much.' It seemed like such a strange statement, but, after years of living with her, it made sense. Her thoughts were and endless and rapid stream, and whenever a sad thought passed through, she was a slave to her emotions.

She smiled up at Dean, "I realized something. I had always looked at it as my family abandoning me, but it's not that." Sam and Dean gave her an 'um…' look, and she laughed it off. "Really, it's not. I was way too young to remember anything except fragments, and I never had anyone to keep those memories alive, so they just kind of withered and died. You guys are the only people I'd consider to be family. I think I'm more upset about the idea of being abandoned than anything."

"We'd never leave you, Lyss," Dean promised, and Alyssa smiled warmly. "That's what Sam said."

"Hmm… you know, this feels like a good time for a group hug!" She smirked, knowing Dean would object. "No, Na-ah, how many times do I have to tell you two, no chic-"

"Yes, you are hugging," she was a gleeful leach, smiling the whole time she clung to him. Making sure her grip on him was a vice, she extended an arm towards Sam. She waved him over. "Come on, Sammy. Hug us!" Dean jestingly glared at Sam, "No. You aren't invited." Sam shook his head as well, grinning. He took a few steps backward, objecting, "Nope. No hug for you." Alyssa blew out a protesting breath, and relented, "Fine I didn't want to hug you anyways." With that, she gently pushed Dean away, frowning. She sat on her and Dean's bed with her arms folded across her chest, but she couldn't keep the façade up for long, and her eyes were already betraying her, mocking her cause: to make them feel even the slightest twinge of guilt for shooting down her proposal. But it was just too damn hilarious. She started to crack a smile. Dean began to chuckle, quickly followed by Sam, then, once they were all snickering, it turned into full blown laughter. It was a contagious drunkenness. It was full of merriment. It was the laughter of best friends, family. But moments end, and, slowly, their laugh died off.

Sam rolled the shiny saran wrapped sandwiches in his hands, deciding which to claim. Alyssa had chosen hers right off the bat: tuna salad on French, but this was different. The two remaining sandwiches were nearly identical, both ham and cheese. It was purely a matter of which had more mayo. Dean of course getting the one with less. In the end it was a snap decision, him taking the one in his left hand, and tossing Dean the one in his right.

Dean looked back at the 'Magic Fingers' controller longingly, and asked earnestly, "Did you bring quarters?" Sam frowned at the implement, "Dude, I'm not enabling your sick habit. You're like one of those lab rats that pushes the pleasure button instead of the food button until it dies."

"What are you talking about? I eat," Dean flopped down onto the bed, and, as if to prove his point, unwrapped his sandwich, "And I got news."

"Me too," Sam announced. Dean nodded slightly, a minute gesture of his head, and acknowledged Sam with a simple "All right." He sat down meager inches away from Alyssa on their bed. He wasn't touching her, but was close enough to feel the heat radiating from her. It was as if she were her own space heater. Alyssa leaned her head against his shoulder, resting there. Dean offered Sam a route to expression of his thoughts, "you go first."

"Three students have disappeared off the college campus in the last year. All of them were last seen at the library."

"Where Carl Gully worked. Sick bastard," Dean clarified. Sam nodded, half his mind on the subject at hand, the other half wondering through the streets and avenues of la la land. As he watched them sit together, her head resting easily on Dean as she smiled contently, these were the times when the expression 'third wheel' seemed to apply. Though they weren't doing anything that should be reserved for privacy, it still felt like an intrusion to be there. There was too much romance in the air to sit comfortably, without shifting awkwardly in your seat. Love flowed effortlessly between the couple. So much emotion was in that simple gesture, that Sam considered just giving them the room. Of course it was ridiculous to assume that it would turn sexual, for they were barely touching, but he contemplated it all the same.

Sam could never voice his thoughts, for Dean would mock him, 'I think you might be growing lady parts, Sammy', but he couldn't help but wonder that this had to be the epitome of love. To be able to be so happy together, to be able to extract such sheer joy from a little touch.

It was getting to be too long a pause in conversation, and, so as to exclude suspicion, he redirected the conversation, "So Gloria's angel."

"Angel?" Dean interrupted. Sam clenched his teeth. "Okay," he gritted, "Whatever this thing is . . ."

"Okay," Dean explained, "well, whatever it is, it's struck again." Sam blinked dumbly a few times, as it was taking a moment for this information to register. Alyssa asked, equally as startled, "What?" She pulled away from Dean and looked at him directly. His gaze flickered between them both, engaging them equally in the conversation, "I was listening to the police radio before you got here; there was this guy, uh, Zach Smith, some local drunk; he went up to a stranger's front door last night, stabbed him in the heart."

"And then I'm guessing he went to the police and confessed?" Sam relayed the M.O., applying the trait to the newest death.

"Yep, Roma Downey made him do it," Dean joked as he stood. Snagging a Post-it note off the mirror, he continued, "Now, I, uh . . . I got the victim's address."

"Then let's go," Alyssa suggested, standing up.

When they reached the house, their entry was that of a spy movie. They climbed stealthy, in an established single file, over the fence to the backyard, and crossed the dewy grass towards a window. Dean pulled at the widow, but it didn't move. Resorting to plan B, he extracted a small blade from his boot. He slid the edge of his knife under the window seal, the thin blade sliding easily under the wood. The old fashioned frame lock turned easily, and they opened the window. Dean slid into the house first, Sam and Alyssa close behind, and started to shuffle through papers. Sam took his spot at the victim's work computer, combing through files. Alyssa slipped into the adjoining room, the house owner's bedroom, in hopes of scrounging something up.

Nothing was particularly interesting about the bedroom, a bed, bookshelf, and small dresser were the only furniture to speak of. The bed promised very little in the way of damning evidence, and the dresser already divulged all its secrets, the collection spilling out everywhere and each drawer wide open. His bookshelf was mundane at best, neat and orderly, a fine layer of dust amassed in front of the untouched novels. Alyssa blew lightly in impatience at the lack of proof, then wrinkled her nose and screwed her eyes shut as some of the displaced particles spiraled towards her face. She blinked a few times, scourging the dust from her eyes, and went on searching.

Sam typed busily on the computer, the steady pattern was a metronome for the rhythmic finding of useless documents. They were boring business emails and letters, and nothing one wouldn't find on the computer of any working class man. But the search did yield something; the infuriatingly locked file that, even in his tech-savvy hacking abilities, Sam was struggling to breech.

Alyssa scanned the bookshelf in one last futile search, but was not expecting to actually find interest. Her eye caught on the bound leather of a Bible, but it was not the fact that I was the word of God that attracted her to this particular book, but the lack of grime slathered across the wood in front of it. Tipping her head to the side, she pulled it from its place. As she flipped through, she was met with nothing unusual, Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and so on. It was as she was returning the book that the real juicy gossip emerged. A thin book was tucked in the seemingly empty space that the Bible once hid. She grabbed the novel from the recesses of the bookshelf. Alyssa cringed away from the crude cover: A man's hand clutching the bare nakedness of a small ass. "Oh, maybe not such a good little choir boy?" She commented to no one in particular, "_wonderful _place to hide your porn though. Not sacrilegious at all."

"Find anything?" Sam called to the general populace. Alyssa walked into the room, book in hand just in time to catch Dean's response. "Well, Frank liked his catalog shopping, but that's about all I got."

"What about you, Alyssa," Sam asked, "what's that?"

"Porn," she shrugged. Sam dismissed it immediately, nothing could really be learned by the amount of nudies someone read. Dean was a prime example of that, exemplified by the way his interest piqued. He looked at her in all seriousness, "anything good?" Alyssa rolled her eyes at him, but sped read it all the same.

_"__He parked in front of the elementary school," _it read_, "and the sight of the uniform clad girls set his loins on fire. He scanned the crowd, searching for a victim, but he didn't expect to see such a wonderful sight. A small brunette, petite and pretty, swung on the swing. As she went high, the wind blew her skirt up, leaving her hello kitty panties on full display. She couldn't have been more than eight, but . . ."_

Alyssa looked disgusted as she threw the book in the metal, mesh trash bin. It rattled against the sides, and the resulting noise grated on her eardrums. "That," she accused, "was fucking sickening. Damn pedophile." Dean flinched at the disturbing content.

"Not much here," Sam muttered, "Except he's got this one locked file on his computer, I can't . . . . hold on." He pressed, purposefully, a few buttons, the grinned in triumph. She sounded proud of himself, "Not anymore." Sam's eyes flickered across the screening, moving at a dizzying rate. His jaw went more slack with each word he red, until it was slung into an astonished disbelief. "God."

"What?" Dean probed. "Well," he's got all these emails. Dozens, to this lady named Jennifer." He paused and looked at them, his face contorted into a grimace, "This lady who's thirteen years old." Alyssa moaned in mingled disbelief and repulsion, and hid her face in Dean's shoulder. It was as if she bought into the paper-thin pretense 'out of sight, out of mind'. Dean looked equally as horrified, pleading, "Oh, I don't want to hear this." Sam nodded, as if he wasn't going to say anything more, yet he continued, "Looks like they met in a chat room. These emails are pretty personal, Dean. Look at that. Setting up a time and place to meet. They were supposed to meet today."

"Huh," Dean commented, "Well, I guess if you're gonna stab someone, good timing. I don't know, man, this is weird, you know? I mean, sure, some spirits are out for vengeance, but this one's almost like a do-gooder, you know? Like a,"

"Avenging angel?" Sam cut in, a raised eyebrow posing condescending questions. Dean turned away, unwitting to listen to anything that reminded him of that horrible memory. Sam sighed, "Well, how else do you explain it, Dean?" Dean ignored his brother, making a point of fiddling through random papers. He made their shuffling exaggeratedly loud, blocking out pain. Sam continued, undeterred by Dean's lack of focus, "Three guys, not connected to each other, all stabbed through the heart? At least two were world-class pervs, and I bet if you dug deep enough on the other guy."

"Hey," Dean interrupted, picking a glossy pamphlet up off the desk. "What?" Sam sounded annoyed, but intrigued. Dean read through the brochure, "You said Carl Gully was a churchgoer, right?"

"Yeah," Sam barely got the words out before Dean had another question spinning through his brain, "What was the name of his church?" Sam thought about it for a second, racking him brain for the answer, "Uh, Our Lady of the Angels?" Dean held up the flier, exposing the words to the analyzing stares of Sam and Alyssa. "Of course that'd be the name," Dean reasoned, "Looks like Frank went to the same church."

**OMG! Cliff hanger...well not really. If you watched the show, you should know what happens, except I've got a little twist. Intrigued? Good. Anyways, as always, I don't own Supernatural, and please review! Tell me what you think of Alyssa. You guys liking her?**


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